Harry Potter and the Delusions of Mental Illness
by what-dimension
Summary: A dead cat hanging from a lamp post, a man in a stained lab coat, little league games gone awry, and a mysterious school for troubled children. These are just a few of the enigmas surrounding young Harry, our 11 year old paranoid protagonist. Harry attempts to undercover the vast conspiracy that has overshadowed his life from birth in this dark tale of treachery.
1. Chapter 1: Cat Killer

Stipulation(s): I do not claim ownership of Harry Potter or the numerous tragedies that befall him throughout this convoluted work. JK Rowling is the woman to talk to. She's got Harry Potter held hostage, and I think she's planning something. I have no idea where this came from, but someone should probably destroy it.

* * *

Chapter 1

Cat Killer

* * *

There is a peaceful little town called Little Whinging which is nestled in the rolling green hills of Britain. It is as if the town was carefully laid to rest on nature's bosom, like a beautiful pendant. Over the years a tranquility had descended over the valley— one that no one dare disturb, for it was rare to find such a place as cozy and quaint as Little Whinging. This is not to imply for a moment that the fine townsfolk of Little Whinging were not hard workers. They worked as hard as anyone else, but their lives were immersed in a haze of never-waning appreciation for the simple things in life— The smell of freshly mowed grass, for instance. Or a glass of refreshing lemonade while listening to the chirp of the wrens, which hopped from branch to branch on the plum trees. The scent of the air was a lovely mixture— a blend of the neatly kept beds of flowers outside every house, and the home-cooked meals being prepared within.

But such a haze can act as obfuscation of the worst sort, and I'm afraid this was the case in the tiny town. This fog of cordiality had long cloaked a most heinous secret. It was this secret that soon corrupted the mild mannered peasant people of Little Whinging.

It had begun innocently enough. Little tea parties, between the housewives. Quiet indoor affairs, characterized by pleasant chit chat and polite laughter at absurd trivialities, but _never _at the expense of someone else. Such rudeness was not tolerated.

The tea parties acted as a gateway to gossiping. Rivalries began to quietly blossom between the doe-eyed women of the village, and their once gracious demeanors quickly soured. In the local book club, the choice of reading material grew into a full blown disputation. Harsh words were exchanged, fishtanks over-turned, and fine china smashed to pieces.

One morning, a cat was found dead, hanging from a street lamp.

The feline was lacerated as if having been attacked with a kitchen knife. It had belonged to Arabella Figg. Now, Mrs. Figg frequently let her cats meander around the neighborhood, as they often caught rats and other pests. Many of the neighbors were actually quite fond of them. This is why it came as such a surprise.

In the throes of devastation, a town meeting was called. Arabella was distraught, of course. Things began politely enough, but the townsfolk quickly tired of the formalities, and accusations began to fly.

_"Her house always smells of cabbage!"_

_"The cake she serves at tea time is always stale!"_

_"I think she's a spy!"_

This last accusation had been flung by a pucker-faced husk of a woman named Petunia, who had not lived up to her namesake as a beautiful flower. Petunia happened to reside next door to Arabella Figg, at Number 4 Privet Drive. She had always harbored a prickly animosity for her next door neighbor, for reasons unknown.

Petunia now stood up straight as a bean pole, her face contorted in a mixture of contempt and shame, for all eyes had turned to her, and her face was looking particularly puckered today. She had been on a strict diet of sour cream and cucumber sandwiches, which were rumored to help shriveling of the lips, and aid in digestion. Petunia realized in horror that she had not eaten her sandwiches today, because the local academy had called her at one o'clock informing her that her son Dudley had gotten stuck in a tube-slide at recess and had an anxiety attack.

After Petunia had removed a hyperventilating Dudley from the slide and brought him to his favorite ice cream parlor, it was already past two. Petunia had considered eating, but she knew she wouldn't be hungry for dinner if she did.

A now empty Petunia was feeling more husk-like by the minute. Her stomach vocalized its grievances with her, and she visibly squirmed. The unyielding scrutiny of the other townsfolk was almost too much to bear.

"A spy?" repeated the mayor.

"A s-s-spy," Petunia stammered. "I've seen her. Watching us. I'm sure of it."

Petunia's husband, Vernon, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was visibly drenched in sweat, and continued dabbing his handkerchief all over his paunchy face. The dabs continued to get more and more rapid as Petunia continued to speak.

"She's always eyeing us," Petunia squeaked. "And... _our boys."_

A muted murmur ran through the crowd. Petunia gasped and then hiccuped, covering her mouth in horror. The implication had been unintentional. It was true, however. Arabella Figg seemed to show an_ unusually_ keen interest in the children of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. More specifically— their eleven year old son Harry.

The mayor squinted his beady eyes. They slid up and down Petunia, scanning her rail-thin body like it was an alien life form. The keen eyes shifted to Arabella Figg, who was sitting calmly with her purse on her lap, staring at Petunia with a hard expression.

"Arabella? Is this true?" the mayor prodded softly.

Arabella Figg rose to her feet, "My interest in young Harry and Dudley is _purely_ maternal. I watch over them..." she paused, as if weighing the consequences of what she was about to say. "Because quite frankly, Mr. Mayor, I see Vernon and Petunia to be unfit as parents."

A bigger murmur this time. Petunia's face had now taken on the visage of a shriveled balloon.

"How dare you," she whispered.

Mrs. Figg took a step forward, "They keep him locked up, you know! In a broom cupbo—"

But before she could finish, a crack rang throughout the town hall. And in an instant, Mrs. Figg had vanished.

She would not be seen in Little Whinging for many years. Though some claimed to have glimpsed a dark figure resembling her slinking around in the night... crouched behind the picket fence of Number Four Privet Drive. Watching. Waiting.

People returned to their homes that night, with a niggling fear sprouting up in the depths of their stomachs. A dark creeping suspicion had taken a hold over the town of Little Whinging. They began to lock their doors. Tea parties became closed events. Shrubbery grew tall between homes, creating great green divides where there once was friendly borders.

* * *

"You must be cautious, my dear Figg," a voice croaked. It issued forth from a set of dry lips, which sat atop a great flowing beard. A crooked nose overhung the lips, upon which set a pair of half-moon spectacles. "The boy cannot leave. You know this."

"But Albus," Arabella insisted. "These muggles— they are of the worst sort!"

"I am aware of this, my dear," the wise one replied. "But he must stay with Vernon and Petunia— at least for now. My enchantments over the valley keep him safe."

_"Your enchantments are slipping, Albus!"_

The old wizard's eyes narrowed.

"A dark magic is growing there," she hissed. "I may not be able to cast spells myself, but lord knows I've been around enough dark wizards to sense it. The townspeople grow more vindictive with each passing day. My little Snowball is gone!" Mrs. Figg's voice broke as she mentioned her dearly departed pet.

"The boy killed Snowball," Albus said calmly.

Mrs. Figg's face looked as if he had struck her. Pure shock, followed by horror. She gaped in astonishment.

"Return to Little Whinging, Arabella. Watch him."

"But I—" she gasped, still flabbergasted. "They suspect me!"

"And you will stay out of their sight. But Harry must remain under watch."

_"Then perhaps you should find someone else," _Mrs. Figg shrieked, rising from her chair. "Because I am started to question why we are _even protecting this boy!"_

Dumbledore's eyes flashed, "Do not forget your debt to me, my dearest Figg."

Arabella closed her mouth, and regarded him in stony silence.

"I offer my condolences for your loss." Dumbledore bowed his head deeply. Mrs. Figg stared, mouth still agape.

_"It's him, isn't it?"_

"I beg your pardon?

"That's why your enchantments are slipping. It's the boy."

There was a long silence between them. Dumbledore leaned forward in his desk, and touched the tips of his long bony fingers together.

"If so," he said. "It is no concern of yours."

* * *

Harry Potter awoke covered in blood. This may have been alarming for a boy other than Harry, but one can only awake covered in blood so many times before it loses its shock value and starts to become mildly annoying. As per usual, he had been duct taped to a chair in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry wondered to himself what could have possibly happened this time. He sighed in exasperation.

This was the latest in a string of bizarre unexplainable episodes in which the boy had lost control of his body, with no memory of the events that had transpired. The first time was at school. He had stabbed a fellow student with a salad fork during lunch. Luckily the wounds were minor, and Harry had been let off with only a slap on the wrist. It was chalked up to grade stress.

Harry didn't remember stabbing anyone.

The salad fork incident was followed a few months later by the lawnmower incident, which was followed by the barbershop episode. In each one, 'Harry' had attempted to go on a bloodthirsty rampage. From the looks of it— this time he had succeeded.

Harry's doctor called them 'psychogenic fugue states.' Dudley called them demonic possessions. Harry remained on the fence about the whole situation. Common sense told him to side with Dr. Fletcher, their family physician, but Harry was quite certain the man had darker motives, and was_ not_ to be trusted under any circumstances. The term 'medical quackery' was never been more applicable. First off, he smelt strongly of booze, and wore the same lab coat each time they saw him. Harry knew it was the same one, because strange stains had been appearing on the coat steadily throughout the years.

Dr. Fletcher's practice was a stodgy one-room apartment with an operating table and low-hanging surgical lights. Dusty picture frames displayed Dr. Fletcher's various certifications, which Harry suspected were forged. In all the years they had gone there for check-ups, Harry had not once seen another patient.

Petunia insisted that the good doctor was an 'old family friend', and 'very reliable.' Harry suspected an affair. Fletcher employed a myriad of questionable methods that Harry could not explain, but always left him feeling uneasy. Harry recalled back in third grade when he had been pushed off the monkey bars by Bridget Jorgenson and broken his arm. Dr. Fletcher had given him a foul smelling cup of medication, and told him to get some sleep. By the morning Harry's arm had healed completely.

Very peculiar indeed.

It was for these reasons that Harry did not trust the doc completely when he had explained in a meandering unconvincing fashion that Harry was afflicted with a rare form of dissociative amnesia which made him experience these episodes. Shifty-eyed and hapless, the doctor had laughed nervously and patted Harry on the back.

"Nothing to worry about, I suspect," he had lied. "Perhaps a side effect from the onset of puberty."

"I'm eleven," Harry replied flatly.

"Yes, well," Dr. Fletcher chuckled. "Just eat your greens and it should resolve itself." He checked his watch, "I'm afraid I have a meeting with another patient, if you don't mind." Dr. Fletcher tried to slide out of the room, but one of Petunia's bony hands had stopped him.

"Mundungus," she hissed in low tones. "A minute alone, please?"

Dr. Fletcher's eyes shifted nervously, and he licked his lips, "Petunia, I really must be going—" Petunia gave the doctor a withering glare. He seemed to concede.

"Harry. Out," Petunia snapped. Harry complied and stepped out onto the street.

The cars trundled by slowly. The drivers all looked annoyed. Harry sat glumly on the bench and watched the ebb and flow of traffic. Some of them even cast glances out of their grimy windows, seeing the wiry black-haired boy in a forlorn position on the bench.

Harry wondered how many of them wanted to kill him. His heart heart pounded in his chest. There had been too many peculiarities in his life to discount. On at least four occasions while out in public, strange hooded figures had attempted to kidnap and murder him.

The first time was at the circus when Harry was five. He had gone to get a bag of peanuts from the concession stand when he was grabbed from behind. The next thing Harry knew, he was in the middle of a graveyard getting his arm gashed open by a some psychopath.

Harry looked at his arm, where he still bore a scar from the sinister incident.

Then there was that time at his little league game when another hooded figure somehow appeared on the field next to Harry and dragged him away without anyone noticing and attempted to slit his throat.

Luckily, someone had always intervened. Though, to this day, Harry did not know who.

The boy was returned to his home unharmed on each of the occasions by unknown forces, usually with only a few scratches— and sometimes— no evidence at all. This proved problematic for young Harry. His depositions to the police department were rarely taken seriously.

The police force assured Harry that such incidents were exceedingly rare, and most people were not ever assaulted in their lifetimes. The probability of being kidnapped on four separate occasions by different kidnappers was unlikely, if not impossible. After reassuring Harry that nothing had happened, they usually turned to Vernon and Petunia and told them to consider psychological evaluation.

Harry was reminded of this as a police car whipped around the corner, sirens blazing. Were they in league with the killers? Were the Dursleys? Was _everyone?_

From behind the glass-paned door of the doctor's office, Harry heard voices. He rose from the bench and pressed his ear to the key hole, listening intently.

"...knew of the risks when you _agreed to take him in!"_ Doctor Fletcher spat.

"No one told us anything about _these incidents! _And don't you think I buy that amnesia crock for a second, Mundungus!"

_"Keep your voice down!"_

The conversation returned to being muted by the door. Harry ground his teeth and rung his hands together. A few moments later, the door to Dr. Fletcher's office flew open and Petunia emerged on the street. Her eyes regarded Harry for a moment, still incensed from the argument that had transpired with the doctor.

Harry felt Petunia's bony hand grab his sweaty one. A second later he was being yanked down the sidewalk at a breakneck pace and forced into the back seat of their automobile and rushed home to be thrown into the cupboard under the stairs.

Harry recalled the event with curiosity. Since the fugue states had begun occurring, Vernon and Petunia had been wary to let Harry go anywhere. If the Dursleys were home, Harry was under the stairs. If they were out, Harry was placed in the care of Mrs. Figg, who was possibly Harry's only friend. She let Harry watch television programs at her house, and often gave him slightly stale cake to eat. This maybe didn't seem like much, but it was a big improvement over Harry's usual living circumstances. Harry listened to his own breathing in the dark. Ragged and breathy. But that could just be the bonds. Vernon always wrapped the duct tape abnormally tight.

_Did I kill someone myself? Or is this my blood?_

Harry did not feel any pain, but he realized he could just be in shock. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. Past events remained obscured by a dark fog which rested over Harry's memory.

* * *

It was the same fog that crept through the recesses of Harry's troubled psyche that had descended upon the quaint little town of Little Whinging. The doors of the town hall had opened, basking the street in warm yellow light. But the citizens did not share in this warmth. As they exited the building, cold glances of suspicion were exchanged.

Arabella Figg— a spy? A child molester?

This was the question on everyone's minds as they returned to their homes. Still unanswered was the mystery of who had killed Snowball. No deliberation had been reached. But this was overshadowed by an even bigger caper. How had Arabella Figg— a fully grown woman in rather garish attire— managed to disappear from a crowded town hall undetected?

Clearly, methods of illusion and trickery were at work here. The meeting had only added fuel to the hateful fire growing in the hearts of every man, woman, and child that resided in Little Whinging.

"Perhaps a hidden trap door," Vernon murmured to Petunia, as they stalked down the street towards their home. Well, Petunia stalked. Vernon waddled.

"You know _very well_ there was no trap door," Petunia muttered in quiet tones.

"You don't think—"

"I do."

There was silence between them. Vernon pulled at his neck tie nervously as his tiny mind attempted to comprehend what his wife was saying.

"Well," he finally replied, in fearful tones. "She certainly didn't _look_ the part."

Petunia sighed at her dimwitted husband "Do you think they just walk around in pointed hats and capes, Vernon? No, they're disguised. Look at Dr. Fletcher. Or..." she leaned in, taking a look around to make sure no one was in earshot, _"Or my sister."_

Vernon turned this idea over in his head, "So, you think Figg was one of them?"

"Yes," she spat. "And what's more, I think it's her that may have... well, put a start to all this _madness._"

Vernon halted in the middle of the road. He had had an epiphany— an occurrence so uncommon it stopped him in his tracks.

"You mean his episodes!" Vernon sputtered. "And the cat—"

Petunia hushed her husband, "Yes, dear..." Her eyes had widened, stretching the contours of her gaunt bony visage to the maximum. "I think she was teaching him. And something went terribly wrong..."

Vernon comforted the woman as best he could, by draping a beefy chunk of flesh masquerading as an arm across her shoulders. He felt her knees buckle under the pressure.

"Don't you blame yourself," he said. "My little Petunia. Not for a second." They had reached the front door of Number Four Privet Drive. As Vernon pulled their house key from the pocket of his puffy overcoat, Petunia laid a frail hand on her husband's.

"I'm scared, Vernon," she whispered.

"He's all tied up. Nothing to be scared of."

"Stabbing other children. Assaulting barbers. Killing cats. Scampering up light poles! What if we find our little Dudley, beaten to death with a lamp, bleeding out on the living room rug?"

"That's dreadful."

"That's my favorite rug!"

Vernon considered this, and hastily stuck the key in the lock and swung open the door.

From the confines of his dark prison, Harry heard the door open. They had returned. Finally he would get some answers. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, though it was misplaced. The death of Snowball would only trouble him further, and heighten the paranoia that constantly pervaded his brain.

The door to the cupboard under the stairs swung open, and the hoggish face of Harry's adoptive uncle peeked in fearfully.

"Hello there," Harry greeted him cheerfully. "What was it this time?"

"You know perfectly well," Vernon spat. He entered the cubby, crouching down on his hands and knees to fit his gargantuan figure through the opening. Harry saw the glint of metal in Vernon's pudgy hand.

_The revolver from their bedside stand..._

Vernon kept a small silver handgun for use in emergencies in the master bedroom. Harry had inspected it many times.

"Don't you try anything," Vernon snorted, and held up the weapon.

"It was that bad, huh?" Harry asked incredulously.

"It smells in here," Vernon spat.

"I'm soaked in blood."

Vernon eyed Harry, "I am going to cut you loose, boy. I'll be pointing this at you the whole time, so don't try anything clever. Strip down to your skivvies, then go up the stairs. Petunia is running a bath."

"Bubble bath, I hope," Harry replied.

Vernon squinted, and his jowls quivered. He reached a trembling hand into his pocket and shakily removed a pocket knife. Harry felt his heart ricocheting off his chest as Vernon advanced with the knife. One diabetes-induced twitch could sever an artery. Harry swallowed nervously.

Vernon cut Harry's bonds. There was silence between them as this occurred, for both held their breath. Harry rubbed his wrists and stretched. Vernon recoiled.

_"Strip, boy!" _he grunted, waving the revolver. In any other circumstance, Harry would have been uncomfortable with this command, but he suspected whatever he had done had rattled his oaf of an uncle so deeply, this response was justified.

Harry climbed the creaking staircase to the bathroom in his underwear, with Uncle Vernon following behind him, gun pointed at the back of Harry's head. Harry made solemn eye contact with Dudley, who was sitting in the living room and feasting on a plate of left-over dinner rolls.

With his mouth stuffed full of breading, Harry's vile cousin shrieked, _"Cat killer!"_

It took a moment for Harry to decipher the Dudley-speak, but Harry had been listening to Dudley talk with mouthfuls of food for his entire life. But surely he had heard wrong...

_Cat killer... No. I couldn't have._

But with a sinking feeling in his chest, Harry knew that he had. It was cat blood that now caked his hair and clothes.

_Well... that's better than a human, at least._

But somehow, it didn't feel better. It was humans who had kidnapped Harry and tried to kill him on multiple occasions. Humans who forced him to live in cramped living quarters and routinely verbally abused him. Humans who fed him cake laced with arsenic. Another thought consumed his brain even more sinister. There was only one person on Privet Drive that had cats, and that was Mrs. Figg...

_I killed one of Figg's cats._

This was deeply unsettling. Harry knew those cats. In fact, they had sat on Harry's lap at Mrs. Figg's house while he ate poisoned cake. They were innocent. There were no plots in cat's minds. No secret schemes. No conniving diabolical plans hatched in the dead of night to kidnap and murder him.

Harry let out a particular kind of sigh that held in it all of his inner turmoil. A weary and regretful type of sigh, not just for the circumstances, but for the general state of his existence.

Now, Vernon was not a remarkably perceptive creature, but he had raised young Harry for eleven years, and had heard such a sigh before. It was the type of sigh Harry made when he was assigned to do all the dishes after their yearly Christmas party. It was the type of sigh Harry made when Dudley pushed him down the stairs for the umpteenth time. It was the type of sigh Harry made whenever something particularly unfortunate occurred to him. Vernon hated this sigh, because although Harry didn't _say _anything damning, it _seemed_ to convey a sense of superiority. It _seemed_ to signify that Harry was resentful of being graciously accepted into their family. And though it had never perturbed Uncle Vernon too greatly, on this particular night, it was a little too much to handle. He had just returned from the most stressful town meeting in Little Whinging's history and had to participate in a conspiratorial cover-up of a cat's murder (committed by his own nephew!) and then console his wife, who seemed to be positively wilting before his very eyes.

This is why, in that particular moment, Vernon's hand reflexively squeezed the trigger of the revolver.

There was a click, but no gunshot.

Harry had removed the bullets long ago, in anticipation of this day.

It took a moment for Harry to identify the sound he had heard from behind him. It took him another to comprehend what it meant. The blood in his veins turned to ice.

_They waited all this time. Every interaction in my eleven years had built up to this moment. Vernon planned to murder me. _

Harry's mind was racing as he turned around slowly to face his uncle, who was looking at the gun with a mortified expression on his face.

"I—" the man began, but no sooner that he had, Harry leaped from his position on the stairs, arms outstretched. As Harry's hands wrapped around his uncle's flabby throat, Vernon tipped backwards, the stairs creaking under his weight.

Dudley rose from the couch in the living room. A scream escaped his lips, propelling gooey chunks of dinner roll through the air. He hauled his pudgy body over the back of the couch, running towards his falling uncle, but he was too late.

The full weight of Vernon slammed down on the flimsy staircase, breaking straight through. Harry and his uncle fell as if in slow motion into the cupboard under the stairs.

Dudley stood in shock for a moment before plunging headfirst into the rubble, trying to pull Harry off Uncle Vernon.

Petunia rushed from the second-floor bathroom, her socks skidding on the wood floor as she came to the railing.

_"What in the hell—" _she shrieked.

Now, Petunia had never been overly fond of sports, however, back in high school she had made a brief foray into track and field and jumped hurtles. She had done marginally well, before pulling her hamstring. As she surveyed the staircase, she felt confident in her abilities to jump the gap.

This is how Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Harry, and Dudley all ended up in the cupboard under the stairs, screaming at the top of their lungs and clawing at one another like wild animals. Petunia landed on top of Dudley, who was already on top of Harry, who was on top of Vernon. This order switched around many times throughout the Figght, but the end result was the same.

After the dust had settled, Harry was duct taped to the chair again. Petunia was missing several clumps of hair (at one point Vernon had mistaken her tangled mass of black hair for Harry's and gone haywire). Dudley was whimpering like a pup, curled up in the corner and nursing a broken wrist. Vernon was gasping for air and fanning himself with one of the broken stairs. This was the most exercise he had gotten in years, and he was quite sure he was having some sort of heart attack.

Harry was simply astounded his entire family could fit in the cupboard under the stairs. It was a question he had often pondered, but never thought he would know the answer to. Everyone was silent, casting suspicious glances back and forth. Harry was the first to speak. He raised an accusatory figure at Uncle Vernon.

"He tried to shoot me."

Petunia's nostrils flared, _"SILENCE! How dare you accuse your uncle of—" _But she was interrupted by Dudley.

"It's true, mum!" the fat boy whimpered. "Dad pulled the trigger on Harry."

All eyes now were turned to Vernon. The pasty-faced man looked ashamed.

"I-I don't know what happened," the uncle stammered. "It's like something took ahold of me. I wasn't myself, Petunia! You've got to believe me!"

There was more quiet. Vernon's words echoed around Harry's skull:

_It's like something took ahold of me.._

Harry did not dare bring up the similarity of this to his own episodes, for fear that his uncle would make another attempt on his life. For all he knew, everything his uncle had ever said was lies. Vernon could be scrambling to cover up his botched attempt— back-tracking to mask his true intentions from his family,. Harry ground his teeth together and studied the obese man closely.

He had never pegged his uncle seriously as one of the people trying to kill him. Taking the bullets out of the gun had just been a paranoid precaution. But now Harry wasn't so sure. He desperately wished he could take his secret notebook out under his mattress, where he had written down his list of suspects and various connections he had made over the years.

Deciphering the contrived nature of Vernon's plan would be challenging. But then again... perhaps it was a spur of the moment action. Harry studied his uncle's face once more. The man had never been good at lying. He was too dimwitted for it. But he could even be faking that. For all Harry knew, the character of 'Uncle Vernon' was an elaborately constructed ruse to lull Harry into a false sense of security, and then attack the boy when his guard was down.

_But why do it right now? There were plenty of times I was helpless. He could have smothered me as a baby, or drown me in the bath tub when I was young, or shot me from behind while we were out hunting... and why would he make an attempt in full view of Dudley, who can corroborate my story?_

Unless, of course, Vernon _hadn't _wanted to kill Harry. Maybe he just wanted Harry to think that he wanted to kill him, for purposes even more inscrutable. In any case— Harry was getting anxious just considering it, and told himself to calm down. For the time being, it seemed they wanted him alive. Every second he was alive was another second he could be creating a counter-plot to Vernon's.

Petunia looked worriedly at her husband, and then scornfully at Harry. Suddenly, she rushed forward, grabbing Harry by the collar.

_"Did you make your uncle do it, boy?!" _she shrieked. _"Did you possess him with magic?!"_

Harry was caught off guard, "I-I— what?!"

_"What has Mrs. Figg been teaching you?! Did you sacrifice the cat for this?!"_

"I-I didn't- I didn't sacrifice anything!" Harry yelled.

Petunia let Harry go and rose to her feet, "Fine. Deny it. But just know one thing, Harry. I'm up to your tricks. I've seen it before. I saw your mother for what she was. _A freak. _And you... you are _no different."_

Harry was perplexed beyond measure. In all these years, the Dursleys had never breathed more than a few words regarding Harry's birth parents. He knew they had died in a car crash, but other than that, Lily and James Potter were never spoke of in the Dursley household.

_Why now? Did my mother kill cats too? Did she have dissociative amnesia?_

He could only think of one thing to say, "Can I have my bubble bath now?"

_"You will stay in here,"_ Petunia spat. "Until further notice. I am taking Duddykins to Dr. Fletcher... and I'm taking _this!" _

She held up the gun. Vernon looked away sheepishly.

"Good riddance," Petunia snapped. "Come, Dudley."

The two of them exited. Dudley continued to wail the entire way out the door. Vernon was still regaining his breath. When the man felt safe to walk without going into conniptions, he rose to his feet. He looked at the gaping hole in the stairs above him, and then back at Harry. He took his pocket knife out, and flicked it open, then pressed the blade to Harry's throat.

_"Any more funny business, any at all, and you won't have any meals for a week!"_

The door to the cupboard slammed shut as Vernon made his dramatic exit.


	2. Chapter 2: The Owl in Little Whinging

Stipulation(s): JK Rowling is the only one that can sell you Harry Potter. My Harry is a substitute. He may act like Harry, and look like Harry, but he is not Harry. He is a fake, and I am a fool for ever believing he loved me.

* * *

Chapter 2

An Owl in Little Whinging

* * *

That night, disturbing and terrifying images flitted through the dreams of the townsfolk. Images of bloody cats, suspended from lamp poles. Strange flashes of green light that waxed and waned, accompanied by blood curdling screams. Serpents slithering through the eye holes of human skulls. The slumbering suburbanites tossed and turned in their beds, drenched in sweat, entangling themselves in their sheets and crying out in horror, only to awaken for the tenth time, breathing heavily and hearts aflutter.

The next morning, bleary eyes were abundant. Pots of coffee were made sloppily, and toast blackened. Breakfast was a silent affair, for no one dared mention the horrifying contents of the dreams they had. To do so would run the risk of rekindling the paralyzing sense of imminent doom that had kept them awake into the wee hours of the night.

Front doors began to swing open around 7:00 as parents ushered their children out onto the street, lunch boxes and book bags in hand. Among them was the fat boy, Dudley Dursley. However, there was no parent kissing Dudley goodbye as he went out the door. Dudley's parents were nowhere to be seen.

This was remarkably peculiar, given that it was Dudley's birthday.

Usually when Dudley awoke on his birthday, Harry was already being forced to cook breakfast. Showers of affectionate sloppy kisses rained down from the withered lips of Petunia, and words of congratulations from the great mouth of Vernon, hollered in between swallowing mouthfuls of bacon. But this morning was devoid of all the usual birthday hubbub.

Dudley had awoke on the couch to a quiet, and disarrayed house. It looked as if someone had rummaged through the coat closet and kitchen cabinets, throwing the contents all over the floor. Dudley was too stupid and tired to suspect burglary, so he mostly disregarded it. The only thought on his mind was that his parents had maybe _forgotten_ his birthday, which was enough to make his blood boil. He was relieved when his piggy eyes fell upon the massive stack of presents taking up most of the living room.

Dudley was excited for a few reasons. First was that he would be getting an obscene amount of presents this year. Forty, if he had done the figuring correctly. Dudley had never had forty of anything before. Well— pieces of pizza, but that didn't really count.

Second, he was going to the zoo with Piers Polkiss, his best friend in the entire world. Dudley liked Piers, because he agreed with everything Dudley said, and held people's arms behind their backs as Dudley punched them until they vomited blood. That was the mark of a good friend in Dudley's book.

Third (and most important), Harry Potter would not be present for _any _of the festivities. After the fiasco of last night, there was no way mum and dad were letting him go _anywhere._ Dudley was very pleased about this indeed. He had felt a small pang of remorse, but only because Harry's absence meant he and Piers wouldn't be able to kick Harry in the shins or strangle him when they got bored of watching animals sleep.

Speaking of sleep— Dudley's had been particularly unnerving. He had endlessly dreamt of Vernon shooting Harry. What would it have been like if the revolver had fired? Spattering Harry's brains all over the stairs... Dudley smirked. He half wished it had happened. It made his spine tingle just thinking about it.

Dr. Fletcher had given Dudley a foul-smelling cup of liquid the night before to mend his arm. Dudley was certain the medication had been the cause of the nightmares. The boy flexed his wrist, which was still slightly sore. He hoped his sore wrist wouldn't interfere with his ability unwrap gifts.

The fat boy pushed all of this out of his mind. He wasn't going to let Harry ruin his birthday. Especially if he wasn't even there. Today was all about _Dudley. _He walked into the huge stack of presents, eyes agleam. It didn't really matter to him that his parents weren't there. A breakfast with his parents was fine, but presents were the real point of birthdays anyway. Dudley was just about to begin counting his gifts (as per tradition) when he found a folded note that had been left on top of the stack. On the outside, in a frantic sloppy scrawl, it read:

_Dudley, please deliver this note to the office at school! I will pick you up later today. _

_ - Mum_

Dudley certainly wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew his mother always wrote in _immaculate_ handwriting. This was shaping up to be a very odd birthday morning. Curious, he opened up the note:

_Dear Professor,_

_ Please excuse Dudley Dursley and Piers Polkiss from class today at 12:00. I will be picking them for a trip to the zoo, as it is Dudley's birthday. Please excuse Harry from all classes until further notice. Vernon and I will be homeschooling him. Please send anything in Harry's desk home with Dudley.  
_

_ Still exceedingly ordinary,_

_ Petunia Dursley_

School... Dudley had forgotten. He looked at the clock on the wall. After taking several seconds to remember which one was the minute hand, and which the hour hand, Dudley realized that because his mother was not there to wake him up, he had overslept, and school began in fifteen minutes.

_Bollocks!_

Dudley folded the note back up, and inspected the mountain of gifts closely. He desperately wanted to stay and count them, but he knew he would get forty lashings if he was late for first hour. He laid a hand on the glossy gift paper and breathed deeply. He lowered his nose to the pile and inhaled. It smelled like department store, and...

Dudley sniffed again.

_Wet grass?_

This was shaping up to be a _very _odd morning indeed.

The pudgy child securely stashed the note in the front pocket of his blazer. It was his ticket out of class, and he was _not _risking losing it. Dudley smirked, for he knew all the other children would be incredibly jealous watching him swagger out of third-hour maths to go to the zoo.

He hitched his book bag up on his shoulder. Dudley hated walking to school. Petunia had used to drive him the four blocks to St. Grogory's, but recently Vernon had been taking the car into work very early. Now Dudley had to endure trudging nearly a hundred yards in the sweltering heat. With the note in his pocket, Dudley opened the door and took a step out onto Privet Drive.

He looked up at the sun with a repugnant expression.

Perhaps if Dudley was just slightly more perceptive, he would have noticed the limp figure of Vernon sprawled out in the middle of the street. But alas, Dudley rarely paid much attention to anything. In fact, he would have completely missed the great horned owl that was perched on the lamp post by #4 Privet Drive, had it not made a loud _hoot _as Dudley passed by.

Dudley stared at the creature, and his expression turned to a scowl, "It's morning, you stupid bird!" he sneered. "You're supposed to be out at _night!"_

Dudley laughed and kept walking. He heard a flutter of wings. The owl had moved from its perch on the lamp post down onto a mail box, just a few feet from Dudley. The boy stopped again— this time slightly unnerved.

"Go away, dumb owl," he spat. "C'mon! Get!"

The owl cocked its head, but did not budge.

_"I said get!" _Dudley shrieked. He grabbed a book out of his bag and threw it at the owl. His aim was terrible, and it bounced off the side of the mail box and onto the street.

Dudley did not want to get any closer to the owl, which was still staring at him with a perplexed expression. The boy then realized he wouldn't need his maths book anyway today.

"Stupid bird," he muttered, and continued walking.

* * *

It was one hour earlier that Vernon Dursley had encountered the same bird.

At promptly six o clock, Vernon strode out of his house, looking positively bulgy in a school boy's uniform being stretched far beyond its limits.

He had been leaving the house early for several weeks now, having told Dudley and Petunia that he had 'morning meetings' to attend. This was a lie.

The real reason Vernon had begun to leave the house so early was because it had become a daily struggle to fit into their small family vehicle. Ever since Christmas, Vernon had been feeling particularly rotund. So, each morning, Vernon engaged in a half-hour of spacial problem-solving. The problem was the same every day— how to fit into the front seat of his automobile.

Vernon regarded his car with a steady eye and planned his approach. Left leg first. Twist it down, followed by his right shoulder. Once in a ball-formation, he would be able to squeeze his other arm and leg inside and then pull the door shut.

He twiddled his mustache and shifted from foot to foot. Just when he felt confident enough to charge the door, he was startled by a loud _hoot._

The man swiveled, and his beady eyes became slits. Was someone mocking him? Had Harry broke out from his prison to taunt and jeer? Vernon's sleep-deprived mind raced, trying to think how Harry could have slipped away without being spotted.

Still quite rattled from the events of yesterday evening, Vernon had barely slept a smidgeon. After Petunia and Dudley had left to go see Dr. Fletcher, Vernon had planted himself in front of the door to the cupboard under the stairs and kept watch. He did not feel safe sleeping in his own bed, out of fear that Harry would somehow escape and dole out revenge (It should also be noted that Vernon could not have reached his own bed anyway, since the upper floor of the house was inaccessible due to the stair case being destroyed).

Six sleepless hours later, the man awoke scared and confused. He checked his watch and scrambled to his feet. His hand instinctively grabbed the railing. He would have to get dressed quickly to get to work on time. This is when Vernon realized he couldn't actually get upstairs.

He did, however, see that their rickety painting ladder was placed against the wall in such a way that someone could reach the second floor landing if they were very limber.

Vernon stared at the ladder, and his tiny brain short-circuited. He certainly had not left it there.

_"Petunia!"_ Vernon hollered. He swore under his breath and his face turned plum purple in confused anguish. All of his best suits were upstairs. In a fit of manic rage, Vernon gripped the rungs of the ladder and began to climb.

His hands were slick with sweat and with every step the ladder seemed to groan in agony. Vernon licked his lips anxiously and continued to scale the steep incline. By the top wrung, the man's legs were trembling violently, which was wobbling the ladder violently, which in turn made the entire house shake violently. Vernon let out a nervous sort of squeal and grabbed the railing of the second floor landing. He swung a leg up, and let his weight do the rest.

There was a thud as he landed on the carpeted floor. The house's foundation suffered significant damage. Luckily- the Dursley residence would not be around for too much longer anyhow.

Vernon regained his breath, then trundled into the bedroom in search of a suit. Upon entering, he was surprised to see that the mattress to his bed was gone. The rusty metal bed frame was sitting forlornly in the center of the room.

Now, Vernon was not a remarkably perceptive creature, but he had been his wife's husband for twenty odd years. He knew that Petunia had a tendency to have mad cleaning spells when she was in mental turmoil. Her insecurities, fears, and vengeful grudges against neighbors could never be acted upon— and since Petunia had no job in which she could abuse low-level employees like Vernon did to let off steam, all of her pain was funneled into compulsively cleaning her house for hours on end each day. Unfortunately, a house can only be so clean before one has to begin inventing things within their mind to fulfill their delusional need to rid the place of filth. This usually manifested itself in Petunia's mind as believing termites were living in the walls, or other such distressing phantasms.

_"PETUNIA!" _Vernon screamed again. He understood her compulsions all too well, but hauling the mattresses off to be steam cleaned at ungodly hours of the morning when he needed the car was bordering on obsessive behavior. Vernon swung open the door to his closet, only to find that it too was_ completely empty._

His face contorted in fury, exercising full of use of the color spectrum in a span of only a few seconds. Vernon puffed out his cheeks and blew out of hot air like a tea kettle. He could not lose his head. He needed to keep his blood pressure down.

The enraged man exited into the hall, trying to think methodically. If all of his clothes were gone, maybe there was something in Dudley's closet he could wear. The boy was only a few sizes away from Vernon anyhow.

The door to Dudley's room swung open. Vernon let out a guttural roar.

Dudley's mattress was also missing, along with _all of his clothes. _

The house shook once more as Vernon descended from the upper level of the house, then proceeded to tear through every nook and cranny of the kitchen and living room, looking for something that he could wear to work. He considered opening some of Dudley's presents, but he didn't remember getting Dudley any new clothes. Most of the gifts were weapons and electronics. Flat screen televisions, electric guitars, bebe guns, throwing stars, and the like.

Vernon stopped his search, once more trying to think logically about the situation (the issue with this is that we wasn't very skilled in such areas, so it really was more an illogical person thinking they were thinking logically, which can often be worse).

_Petunia must have stayed up all night wrapping gifts, then gotten overwhelmed, and needed to clean something. She took all the mattresses and clothes in the house. But then—_

Vernon rushed to the window and pulled back the drapes, looking out at the driveway. To his surprise, the car was there.

_She dropped off the stuff to be cleaned and brought back the car. Then where did she go?_

"PETUNIA!" Vernon roared for the third time. On the couch, Dudley stirred in his doughy face set in a permanently slack-jawed expression as he watched Harry's brains splatter repeatedly in his dreams. He was still wearing his school uniform from the day before, having been too lazy to change out of considered taking it, but Dudley couldn't go to school without a proper uniform, or he would get sixty lashings. But there was a uniform Vernon _could_ take, but it was someplace the man _desperately _did not want to go. With his teeth gritted, Vernon grabbed more duct tape from the closet, sailing rope, and a bottle of sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. Then he entered the cupboard under the stairs to retrieve Harry's uniform.

Now— standing outside the house having heard a hoot, Vernon contemplated if Harry could have somehow escaped. The mystery of the missing Petunia was still unanswered.

Vernon tugged at his collar nervously. Harry's school uniform was a size too big for Harry, and at least nine sizes too small for Vernon. Another hoot came from behind the man, and Vernon felt a button pop off as he swelled up in surprise. He whipped around, searching for the source.

He tiptoed to the hedges separating #4 Privet Drive from next door and peered through the green barrier into the yard of Mrs. Figg. Perhaps if Vernon was just slightly more perceptive, he would have noticed the limp figure of Petunia sprawled out in Mrs. Figg's flower bed. But alas, Vernon rarely paid much attention to anything.

He briefly wondered if Arabella had returned to collect her cats. Surely she wouldn't have just left them in the house to fend for themselves. Maybe that's what he had heard... the mewling of a starving cat from next door. In any case, Vernon wasn't about to go and feed them. He had a car to fit into. Determined, he turned back around to face the challenge.

The idea of a running start had never occurred to him until now, but in the moment it seemed to make sense. Maybe if he gathered speed he could propel himself through the opening. Yes, that sounded feasible.

Vernon got into what he thought was a good starting position, one foot forward, and arms outstretched in front of him. He took a deep breath, and began to waddle forward. After two steps he was winded, but pushed on. A few strides from the car, the gargantuan man used what muscle he had in his calves to provide a small boost of momentum.

Just then, the great horned owl landed on the hood of the car.

Startled, Vernon swerved in surprise. His forehead hit the rear window with a sickening smack, causing a spiderweb of cracks to appear on the surface. The man collapsed and rolled down the driveway into the road, knocked unconscious from blunt force trauma.

* * *

It was only one hour earlier that Petunia had encountered the same bird.

At the time of the encounter, she was standing at the window of her and Vernon's bedroom. Gripped in her hands was a makeshift rope, made from all of the clothing on the second floor of #4 Privet Drive.

Her bony fingers held the rope tightly. She was leaning back, leveraging herself against the weight of an air hockey table she was lowering onto two mattresses below in their backyard. Inside the bedroom, a string of gifts had yet to be lowered down. Forty gifts were tethered to the rope total. Thirty six had already been safely deposited below in a precarious heap. Petunia was in the process of lowering Gift #37 when a large great horned howl swooped down from above and landed on the window sill.

A cry of terror escaped Petunia's papery lips. She fell backwards, and the rope slipped from her fingers. Petunia's eyes widened as she watched Dudley's new dirt bike, a sixty inch flat screen television, a virtual reality helmet, and a pogo stick slide towards the window as the air hockey table plummeted, yanking the remainder of the gifts with it.

There was a crash as they all flew out the window.

Petunia's night had been a trying one. Unlike the other members of her family, she had not slept one wink. When Petunia and Dudley returned from Dr. Fletcher's office, they found Vernon was conked out completely by the staircase, guarding Harry. Petunia did not dare wake her husband. Disturbing the slumber of a snoring Vernon was likely to cause more damage to the house than had already been done.

Petunia set up a bed for Dudley on the couch.

"Now remember what the doctor said, Duddykins," she soothed, running a finger through his greasy hair. "Don't sleep on your arm, or the bone won't heal correctly."

"Don't worry, I won't," Dudley said, grinning. "I'll be using this hand."

He gave her a devious smile and waggled his fingers. Petunia was slightly taken aback. Dudley was only eleven, after all. She hadn't expected having _this_ talk for another couple of years or so. Her mouth opened and closed several times. After a few moments, all Petunia could think to say was, "That's wonderful, Dudley, dear. You should know that it is _perfectly normal _and nothing to be ashamed of."

She really wished Vernon was here, for Petunia was getting more uncomfortable by the second. Dudley just looked confused.

"What do you mean, mum?"

"For a boy your age to— to explore his body— it's quite normal, really. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, just— be careful, and..."

Dudley continued looking at her with a completely blank expression.

"You do understand what I'm talking about, don't you, dear?" Petunia asked.

"I hope my arm is better tomorrow," Dudley said slowly. "You know, so I can play all my new video games I get for my birthday."

Petunia stared at her son, and blinked.

_Birthday._

The word blared like a siren in her head.

She hadn't forgotten _completely _of course. All of Dudley's presents were upstairs in Vernon and Petunia's room. But Petunia still needed to wrap them, bake a cake, write a letter to Dudley's school, and put up decorations. She had intended to do it all earlier, but with Dudley's panic attack, the death of Snowball, the town meeting, and the revolver debacle, it had somehow slipped her mind.

_How could I be so stupid? Stupid Petunia, this is why you never were as good as Lily. What kind of mother forgets her own son's birthday? A disgusting, lousy, pathetic excuse for a mother. You are like the filth I scraped out of the bath tub drain this morning. A slimy crusty pale creature with clumps of black hair. Your own son won't love you anymore, Vernon will leave you, and Harry will kill you, because of all the terrible things you've done to him.  
_

Petunia gave Dudley a faint smile.

"Of course, dear... of course," She smiled lithely and pulled the covers up. "Sleep well my sweet."

Petunia stumbled to the kitchen, her mind racing. A nervous tick had developed in her temple. She swallowed several times, for all her muscles were seizing up. Her hand reflexively reached to the sink, finding a dish. She had already washed it several times today, but as her fingernails scraped the porcelain, she could still feel tiny flecks of grime.

Petunia turned the hot water faucet on until it was scalding, and scrubbed the dish furiously. A placating calm fell over her, and she closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of dish soap. Tiny droplets from the rising steam condensed on her face, and she breathed heavily. The water burning her hands sharpened her mind. The pain gave her focus, cutting through the fog of self-doubt like a blade.

This wasn't impossible. It could be done.

Petunia knew there was an old painting ladder in the garage. She could use it to get up to the second floor and reach the birthday presents. She also knew that attempting to bring the presents back _down _the ladder would be impossible. Many of them exceeded Petunia's body weight. A single misstep, and she could be crushed flat by a falling television.

No, she needed a better plan. A way to get the gifts from the top floor to the bottom floor without breaking them or accidentally killing herself.

Perhaps it was the fumes from the dish soap or the sleep deprivation, but a plan was beginning to form in Petunia's mind. A scheme so brilliant that she questioned if she had ever thought of something this novel before in her life. With a newfound determination, Petunia shut off the faucet.

This is how Petunia found herself on the floor of her bedroom, listening the awful crash of Dudley's presents on the lawn.

Petunia was a strong woman who had endured a great many awful things throughout her tenure as a bitter stuck-up prude. As a child, her parents had always neglected her and favored Lily. Most notably, Lily had gotten to attend a special school for witchcraft, _and_ run away with handsome James, while Petunia was left to attend a small Catholic school for girls and marry Vernon for his money. Petunia would never admit to a soul that she was unsatisfied with her marriage. To complain about such things would be rude to those who endured far worse. But privately, Petunia often regretted marrying Vernon. Their honeymoon period had been short-lived, lasting just long enough to conceive Dudley. Over the years, as Vernon packed on pounds, his stamina in the bedroom waned. Petunia's lips had been dry for decades, in more ways than one.

Jealousy for her sister had slowly eaten away at Petunia's insides. After Lily's death, when Petunia had been asked to take in Harry, she vowed that she would get vengeance on Lily. Dudley would _always _be taken care of, and Harry neglected.

Unfortunately, it seemed that plan was backfiring. Harry kept forcing himself into the spotlight, despite her best efforts to keep him out of the way. As Petunia listened to Dudley's birthday presents smash to pieces, a choked sob escaped from her throat.

_Don't cry Petunia. Be strong._

She could not contain it. All the years of resentment and contempt for her sister, all the times she had regretting saying yes to Dumbledore, because despite everything, she still felt a sliver of love for Lily Potter, and the wretched murderous boy she had left behind. She often saw more of herself in Harry than her own son. Dudley was the spitting image of Vernon— and just as much of a dunce.

But Harry... he was clever, and cunning. And every time Petunia looked at him, she saw Lily in his eyes. Did he deserve the life Petunia had made for him? Or had she simply repeated the mistakes of her parents, as so many do? Had she made him a monster?

Petunia suddenly sat up, and wiped the tears from her pale cheeks. This was no time for crying. Dudley would be awake in mere hours, and she needed to wrap the presents, and bake his cake. She couldn't let emotional instability and inner demons interfere with the matter at hand.

Petunia rose, and for the first time in several hours noticed how tired she truly was. She also realized that she had _still _not eaten anything.

_Perhaps a sour cream and cucumber sandwich, just to tide me over..._

Petunia scampered from the bedroom to the second floor landing. She swung her legs over the railing and onto the top rung of the ladder. A little midnight snack couldn't hurt.

Petunia prepared her sandwich with cold precision. Then she collapsed against the refrigerator, massaging her aching legs. She didn't know how many presents were damaged. She hoped it was less than half. The woman looked to the clock on the wall, trying to gauge if she would have time to go and replace them. Many had been expensive. This wasn't a major issue, as Vernon made plenty of money as the director of Grunnings, but he would most likely be enraged to hear of his wife's antics losing him a good couple thousand dollars.

Petunia finished the sandwich and licked her fingers. Now to bring the gifts inside and wrap them...

She had not exactly thought this far ahead. Petunia was not a schemer, so her plans rarely exceeded two or three steps. Lowering the gifts to the ground had been easy enough with gravity on her side, but dragging them all the way around the house would be significantly more difficult, especially having not slept in nearly twenty four hours.

She couldn't wake Dudley up to help, because then he would see all the presents. And she couldn't wake Vernon, because just rousing him from slumber may have taken more effort than just bringing all the presents in herself.

This only left one option.

* * *

Unlike everyone else in the Dursley family, Harry did not see an owl that morning. In fact, he saw very little of anything, because Harry slept like a rock. While Little Whinging battled with nightmares, Harry slept remarkably peacefully. Tight duct tape wrap-jobs often cut into his arms and gave him painful pins and needles as he tried to get to sleep, not to mention crippling anxiety and paranoia that someone was lurking in the dark. Such unpleasantries were oddly absent. Maybe being within an inch of death had somehow made Harry feel more alive, and now he just felt lucky to be here. Or perhaps the cupboard under the stairs was a little less stuffy and a bit more well-lit now that the ceiling had been removed, which allowed for far superior sleep conditions.

Whatever the reason, Harry had begun to snooze almost immediately after Vernon slammed the door closed, and was not awoken until many hours later when it was opened by Petunia.

Harry looked up wearily. The rail-thin form silhouette of Petunia gazed down at Harry like an extra terrestrial life form.

"Morning," Harry greeted her drearily.

"Quiet," Petunia hissed. "Your cousin and uncle are both asleep."

Harry closed his mouth, wondering to what he owed this pleasure. Petunia bent down by Harry and began to unwrap the duct tape that secured him to the chair. Harry noticed she smelt positively awful. It was a combination of sweat and cucumber and sour cream sandwiches. This struck him as very strange, given Petunia's vigorous hygiene practices.

The first thought that jumped into Harry's mind was that his aunt had snapped completely, and was about to make short work of him while everyone else was asleep. Harry considered screaming, but then realized no one would care anyway.

"So this is it then?" Harry asked.

_"I said be quiet."_

"Best do it out on the lawn. You wouldn't want to ruin the carpeting."

Petunia did not reply to this, but instead grabbed her nephew by his skinny arm and pulled him out the back door of the house.

Harry inhaled deeply. The morning sun was just beginning to peak over the crest of the valley, making the morning dew sparkle. It was brisk, but not chilly. Just how Harry liked it.

"Petunia," Harry said, already having accepted his death. "Can I just do... one thing?"

"What?" Petunia snapped.

Harry knelt to the ground, and extended his tongue out. He touched it to a single drop of dew on a blade of grass, and sat for a moment with tongue outstretched, savoring the moment. Petunia tapped her foot impatiently. Harry rose, eyes closed, and spread his arms wide.

"All right," he murmured. "I'm ready."

_"What the hell are you on about?"_ Petunia shrieked.

Harry opened his eyes confusedly. This is when he caught sight of the huge pile of presents in the center of the backyard on top of two mattresses. He blinked.

"I'm sorry, what are we doing?" Harry asked.

"Bringing your cousin's presents inside," Petunia murmured. She wrung her hands together and approached the pile, looking at it feverishly.

Harry looked around him. Nobody was watching. Petunia had her back turned, and she wasn't armed. If he started running, she wouldn't be able to catch him.

_I could run away, _Harry thought to himself. _Leave and never come back. Get away before Vernon has another chance to put a bullet in my head..._

And yet, something kept Harry there. He gazed at the bony back of Petunia, and for the first time noticed how pathetic she looked. Her dress was drenched in a mixture of dish water and sweat. Her shoulder blades jutted out like wings beginning to sprout. Her hair was in a complete disarray. Her face merely skin stretched over the contours of her skull. She had a nervous tick. Her bare feet dug into the wet grass, twisting and turning as she stepped around the pile of toys, her hands clenching and unclenching as she circled.

"Thirty six," she said, letting out a rattly breath.

"Pardon?"

"Thirty six presents," she repeated, and looked up at Harry. Her eyes were agleam with excitement. "Only four are broken."

"Oh," Harry finally replied, for it was the only thing he could think of to say.

"Come on then," Petunia said breathlessly, and motioned Harry to join her. She picked up one side of the air hockey table. Harry tentatively approached, and picked up the other side.

He was not used to this Petunia. He was used to an orderly and neat Petunia. She was so tightly wound... Harry had never seen her become this unstrung. No more words were exchanged between aunt and nephew as they hauled all thirty seven presents into the living room.

After it was all said and done, they both convened in the kitchen for a glass of water. Harry was surprised when Petunia poured him a glass first. Perhaps this Petunia was...kinder...?

The Dursleys had a strict 'don't ask questions' rule, which Harry had been taught to obey. He knew not to even give questioning looks, make questioning gestures, or otherwise act in a way that would imply he was questioning anything that they ever did.

This was most unfortunate, since Harry was a boy who was _full _of questions. And since he had no one to assure him that his fears and suspicions about the world were nothing to be afraid of, he simply asked them to _himself_ hundreds of times per day, causing him to worry endlessly about things that needn't be worried about, especially not by a boy of eleven years.

But for the first time, Harry felt like a tiny modicum of trust existed between him and hit Aunt Petunia, so he decided to ask something of her.

"Aunt Petunia," Harry prodded softly.

There was a long silence.

"Yes, Harry?" she replied.

Harry swallowed. His hands had gotten suddenly very clammy, "Why don't... why don't I ever get any presents on my birthday?"

There was an even longer silence this time. Petunia stared at Harry, and for a second he thought she was about to snap back to her usual self and slap him upside the head. But then something remarkable happened. The corners of Petunia's mouth tugged downward slightly, and her eyes softened. It was a strange melancholy look— one Harry had never seen her make before. A sad sort of smile. She placed a trembling hand on the side of Harry's face.

Harry's spine tingled. He was not used to human contact in this way.

"So you will become strong. Just like Petunia."


	3. Chapter 3: Without Sugar

Stipulation(s): My informant has told me that Harry Potter is still in the clutches of JK Rowling, and is being held somewhere in the Philippines. More intel on the mounting situation to come.

* * *

Chapter 3

Without Sugar

* * *

_"On the day the bluest sky is blackened, a boy of muggle blood shall burn as sacrifice to the Dark Lord's serpent relinquished."_

There was silence around the office of Albus Dumbledore. Unless, of course, you counted the background noise being emitted from the various contraptions lurking in every corner of the tower. They were remnants of bygone eras, from the days of a much harsher institution. In the tenures of headmasters past, it was not uncommon to see a whimpering child with their head clamped in one of these nefarious devices— begging for mercy. Now the machines simply acted as reminders of heritage, and just how far the school had come in its methods of rehabilitation.

A woman with shriveled lips looked deeply uncomfortable. She was wearing emerald robes and a pointed hat. In her lap sat a cup of honey and lemon tea, which she had taken only a few sips of earlier in the meeting. It had long since grown cold, and now felt very out of place in her hands. She wondered how odd it would look for her to set a near-full cup of tea back on the desk. As usual, she opted out of making the bolder decision, and let the tea sit in her lap.

A bloke with a greaser haircut and eternally damp robes was pacing back and forth, leaving a musky scent lingering behind him wherever he tread. His gait seemed to demand respect, and yet, he was the least respected one in the room.

A crustier man hobbled around the office as well, though his pace was not quite as swift as the greaser. This was because half his weight was supported by a peg leg. He wore a mangy coat with many pockets, all of which were in use. He was easily the most fastidious of the bunch—even to a fault. It was this attention to detail that had left his electric blue glass eye spinning in its socket as he analyzed the prophecy which had just been played.

The final one in the room sat behind the desk, with his long fingers crossed in front of him. His expression was grave. He was a man that had learned too many lessons too late. A list of the horrors this man had witnessed would be longer than his beard.

They all were staring at a cloudy white orb sitting on the desk. It was from this orb that the echoing ominous message had been spoken. The bearded man cleared his throat, "Thoughts?"

"If I may, Albus..." came a voice spoken in silky smooth tones. It was the greasy man. Almost seductive, in the way his words rolled off the tongue. It was unsettling.

"I just find it odd that you offered Minerva a cup of tea, but not myself,"

Albus gazed at him, and blinked, "I... didn't know you drank tea, Severus."

"I don't," Severus hissed. "But given that I went through hell and back just to retrieve this prophecy, I thought I would at least be offered a beverage of my choice. Perhaps even a... commemoration. Some kind of toast..." his words trailed off, and his eyes shifted to each of the other three, who were staring blankly. "I feel that given my years of indentured servitude to this order, it's not _much _to ask for."

There were a few moments of tense silence, but then a hollow smile appeared on Albus' face.

"Of course, Severus. What would you like?"

"A strong brandy."

Albus rose from his chair, revealing a set of great flowing purple robes. He walked to a spindly table, with an assortment of glass bottles. The man with the peg leg was giving Severus a contemptuous glare.

"Anything for you, Alastor?" Albus asked, looking at peg legged man.

The glass eye spun in its socket, "Of course not, Dumbledore," he growled. "I don't trust you that much."

"I would be worried if you did," Dumbledore remarked, and returned to the desk, handing Severus the glass of liquor. "Now then— any thoughts about the _prophecy?" _

"Could you perhaps play it again?" Severus drawled, drinking deeply from his glass. "I'm afraid I was too deeply offended to really pay it any mind the first time."

_"On the day the bluest sky is blackened, a boy of muggle blood shall burn as sacrifice to the Dark Lord's serpent relinquished."_

"That's just ambiguous enough to be impossible to figure out," Alastor spat.

"Where is this 'bluest sky'?" Minerva spoke up for the first time in the meeting. "Could it be referencing a spot where the sky is bluer than everywhere else?"

"Obviously..." Severus drawled. "That is what that syntax implies."

"Let us not squabble," Dumbledore said, raising a hand. "At this time, all ideas are to be treated seriously. The life of an innocent rests in our hands."

"That's assuming we should try to save him," Alastor grunted, and licked his lips. "One muggle born is a small price to pay for convincing the ministry the Dark Lord is still out there."

"Alastor!" Minerva scolded. "How could you even suggest such a thing?"

"He has a point, headmaster," Severus murmured. "Perhaps we should just let this play out, and we may learn something of the Dark Lord's plans. If we act now, it risks squandering the only lead we have."

There was quiet around the room. Finally, Dumbledore spoke quietly.

"I'm sorry, Minerva, but I am afraid I have to side with Alastor and Severus on the matter."

_"But Albus—"_

"We will wait for the Dark Lord to reveal himself. It is the only chance we have."

* * *

The skies above Little Whinging always used to be blue. Puffy clouds of the cumulus variety drifted lazily across the picturesque horizon, acting as excellent subject matter for polite small talk when conversations ran aground. The children of the valley could often be seen in the summer months, lying in the fresh grass with pointer fingers extended skyward as they marveled at the marvelous abstractions generated in the lower troposphere.

The sky gave a strange sense of comfort to the villagers. No matter the evils lurking down below, the sky would always remain pure. The horizon would be forever blue, unstained by the atrocities of man.

That all changed on the eleventh birthday of Dudley Dursley.

Though many years have passed since these events, some folks say it all began with a cup of sugar... and it all ended in hell fire.

This isn't quite true.

It actually all began _without _a cup of sugar.

Petunia Durlsey stood in her kitchen, bony arms crossed and lips pursed. It was around five o clock in the morning, and she was going to bake Dudley's birthday cake. The presents were in the house and wrapped, Harry was back in his cupboard, and everything was looking like it may work out after all.

That is, until Petunia realized she had no sugar.

It should be noted that many other housewives would not be able to handle the stress Petunia had endured, and probably would have killed themselves then and there. But Petunia was no such housewife. To give up now would render all of her struggles null and void. A cup of sugar would_ not_ lay waste to the trials and tribulations Petunia had vanquished in the past twenty four hours. If she could lower forty gifts onto the lawn, some of them easily triple her body weight, she could find a cup of sugar at five in the morning.

The shops in town didn't open for a few hours, and Petunia would be mortified to go wake up a neighbor at this time of day for something as embarrassing as a cup of sugar. There had to be a better way. Petunia's nails were slowly ground down to raw red nubs as she chewed on them anxiously. Each tick of the clock was like a gunshot to the head, making her more and more frantic as seconds slipped away and she remained sugarless.

This is when Petunia got her second great plan. This plan was possibly even _more _ingenious than the first, but significantly riskier.

Now, Petunia was a very nervous woman, and it didn't take much for her to deem a situation risky. For example, a few years back during their family trip to Switzerland she had forced the conductor to stop the train and strip search a gentlemen sitting next to them, since Petunia was _convinced _he was hiding a bomb under his coat. The man had in fact been a woman, who was with child. The source of the confusion had stemmed from the lady's ethnicity, resulting in Petunia being unable to discern gender. She did not have much experience interacting with people of color.

Petunia considered that to be the most danger she had ever been in before— not counting the constant threat of her nephew, of course.

Normally such a careful and cautious woman would say no to such a risky plan, but today Petunia said _bring it on. _

She grabbed her purse (which still had the revolver in it from the night before) and opened the door to #4 Privet Drive. Just as she suspected, the street was quiet. Devoid of cars, and of people. As Petunia walked along the sidewalk she rather hoped she didn't see that pesky owl again. She was spooked just thinking about it. What an odd occurrence, for an owl to behave that way. Petunia suspected it had swooped at her, mistaking her hair for a possum. Petunia patted her clumpy mass of hair. She rather hoped it didn't look like a possum. What if her hair had looked like a possum all of these years, and no one had ever told her?

_Petunia the Possum, they probably call me. I should shave it off, just to see the looks on their faces._

At this point it should be mentioned that Petunia Dursley was slightly delirious, and losing her grip on reality.

She reached the picket fence in front of Mrs. Figg's house, and unlatched the gate. It swung open with a creak. Now the silence was beginning to be eery. Petunia looked around, checking for faces in the windows of her neighbors. Drapes were drawn, and no faces visible.

Petunia took a step forward, trespassing for the first time in her life. Strangely, it did not feel as dirty as she thought it would. It was even a little... invigorating?

Her heart pounded as she took another step forward. All those years spent peering through the windows, spying on Mrs. Figg and the rest of Privet Drive, and now she was creeping around in the early morning, planning to steal sugar from an abandoned house.

Back when Petunia was a girl, she and Lily had always played secret agents. But Lily never let her be the secret agent. Petunia always had to the person being spied on. She would tip toe around the house tentatively, craning her neck to look around every corner in fear, waiting in dread for when Lily would jump out and grab her.

Now Petunia was the one doing the sneaking.

"Look at me now, Lily," she hissed. _"Look at me now!"_

Petunia reached the front door, and turned the handle. To her delight, it was unlocked. She entered the abode quickly, pulling the door closed behind her, and rushed to to the kitchen of Arabella Figg. Petunia tore through the house with ferocity, her eyes searching for the tiny white crystals she needed so desperately.

As she searched, Petunia couldn't help but notice that all of Figg's cats were gone. She must have retrieved them at some point after vanishing from the town hall. There was a niggling fear in the pit of Petunia's stomach that Arabella would somehow be able to sense her with magic, and would appear any minute now to blow Petunia up.

_Perhaps both Evans sisters are to perish in the same fashion... _Petunia thought to herself. She pulled open the last drawer and rummaged through it to no avail.

_She's bakes so much cake, there has to be sugar in here somewhere._

Petunia double checked, and then triple checked, with no results.

Her good spirits had diminished significantly, and the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach was growing more prickly by the minute. Petunia decided to high tail it out of there before something awful happened. But while walking from the kitchen into the sitting room, she spied an odd sort of vase sitting on the mantle.

It _looked_ like a sugar bowl.

The container was perched on a shelf directly above the fireplace. Petunia approached— the gleam returning to her eyes. She carefully lifted the pot off the shelf and opened it up, looking inside. It was plum full of gray powder. Now, Petunia had never heard of gray sugar. But she _had_ heard of brown sugar.

_If there is a white sugar, and a brown sugar, doesn't it make sense there is a gray sugar as well?_

This profound leap of logic is one that could _only_ be accomplished in the desperate and delirious state Petunia was currently in. The woman tentatively licked her finger and dipped it into the pot, getting the gray powder to stick. Using the tip of her tongue, she licked a tiny bit off.

It was sweet. Sweeter than any other sugar she had ever tasted, that's for sure. A warm sensation spread all across her tongue, leaving a pleasant aftertaste of roasted marshmallows. Oh yes, Petunia liked this indeed.

She held the pot to her chest and opened up the door, feeling rather proud of herself for making such a remarkable discovery. Just as she began to walk down the pathway from Mrs. Figg's house to the road, Petunia began to feel very woozy. It almost felt as if she was contracting a fever. The woman held a hand to her forehead, and was alarmed to feel that it was extremely warm. She stopped, and the world began to spin.

Petunia's eyes rolled back, and she collapsed in the middle of Mrs. Figg's flower bed from the sudden onset of heat stroke.

* * *

It was later that morning that Harry Potter found both his aunt and uncle in their respective positions. Vernon— knocked unconscious in the middle of the road, and Petunia— passed out in a flower bed. However, he did nothing to help either of them. Harry had more important things on his mind. Things like escaping from Little Whinging forever and maybe finding out who had been trying to kidnap and murder him since birth. It was only a matter of time before one of the sinister agents that trailed him took advantage of Harry's escape.

But this time he would be ready.

In Harry's hand was a weapon, stealthily pocketed from Dudley's pile of gifts. In Petunia's manic frenzy, she hadn't noticed her nephew take it. Harry had hidden the throwing star up his sleeve when he was put back under the stairs, and then bided his time until everyone left the house.

Vernon had come in around six o'clock to reinforce the duct tape bonds, wrap Harry in sailing rope, and force feed him sleeping pills. Little did Vernon know that Harry had never swallowed the pills. As soon as the monstrous man had slammed the door shut (looking positively preposterous in Harry's school uniform) Harry had spit out the pills and began sawing away at his bindings using the throwing star.

Now Harry was a free man. He was also a wanted man. The boy looked down at the scar on his arm, and swore vengeance. This time he would not be so helpless. His fingers tightened around the throwing star, his knuckles whitening.

Harry reminded himself that he would _only_ harm in self defense. He needed to know who they were, and where they came from. These were the questions he had wanted to ask his entire life, and now he could finally get answers. But that wouldn't happen if Harry killed them. Harry didn't want to kill anyone.

_At least I think I don't._

His sub conscious seemed to suggest otherwise, but that was a whole separate issue that he didn't want to ponder at this particular moment. One question at a time. Harry desperately hoped he didn't go into a fugue state at an inopportune moment and then not be able to recall important events.

As Harry walked, he noticed that Little Whinging seemed remarkably tranquil. Perhaps this was because everyone was at work and school, so it was not filled with the relentless bickering between family members and neighbors. Harry found himself wistful. Sometimes when he was young, during the hot summers, he had gone walking around the neighborhood. No one had ever tried to kidnap him here in the valley. The only person he had to hide from was Dudley.

Harry walked up the block, and came to the chain link fence surrounding St. Grogory's. The breeze jangled the swings on the play ground back and forth lightly. With no one out for recess, the playground looked incomplete. No insolent screaming children, deriding each other with school yard rhymes and pushing the weak down in the dirt to be ridiculed. Harry stared at the concrete wall of the school, where he had lay crouched in a fetal position many times, bruised and bloodied by dodge balls. He saw where Bridget Jorgenson had pushed him off the monkey bars, and he saw the hot metal slide that two fifth graders had used to hold his cheek against until it burned him.

Other children may have been filled with fury over such wretched recollections, but not our Harry. In order to survive, Harry had learned long ago how to protect himself. Over the years he had developed a set of mental safeguards. In his own head, Harry liked to call them his deflector shields.

The name originated from a television program Harry had often watched at Mrs. Figg's house during his long visits. In the program, there was a spaceship that traveled to alien worlds. It was all very silly, and Harry often found himself dreadfully bored watching it. There was an awful lot of talking, most of which Harry couldn't understand. But occasionally there was a battle in space, at which point the captain would tell the rest of the crew on deck to raise the deflector shields.

Harry had adopted the term for himself for two reasons. Firstly was that he often felt like he was exploring alien worlds himself, most of which were full of hostile inhabitants. And secondly was that it all sounded very sophisticated, and Harry liked the sound of it.

Harry would often quietly murmur, "Raise deflector shields" to know he was safe. Words would glance off him. He'd become numb to pain. Sometimes he liked to imagine he wasn't even in his own body. Harry would close his eyes and look down at himself from above, wondering who that strange wiry boy was getting kicked in the dirt. He would sometimes laugh along with the other children.

_"What are you laughing at?!" _they would yell, and kick him some more, but it only made Harry laugh harder.

Harry sighed. He would be leaving it all behind soon. Those children... they had been kind. They had hurt Harry, but it was only for sport. They didn't mean anything by it. Harry could trust that they would never_ really_ harm him. The same was true for the Dursleys— well, at least it used to be. Vernon's true motives were still up in the air. In any case, Harry wasn't sticking around to find out.

_Hi-yo, Silver away! _He thought to himself. This was another line from the telly, but from a different series. In this one, a man in a mask had always said this before riding away on his horse. Harry rather liked this show.

He wished he had a horse to ride on. Maybe one day. He wondered where he could get one. Certainly nowhere in Little Whinging. But Harry was sure if he walked far enough, he would find a horse eventually. Just as Harry had begun to contemplate what he might name his horse, he felt a hand grab his shoulder.

Harry knew he only had a split second to react. He had not expected an attack this quickly. He was still in Little Whinging after all.

_Nowhere is safe anymore. _Harry thought to himself, and whipped around, releasing the throwing star from his hand. It twirled through the air momentarily, before lodging with a thunk into the flesh of the hooded figure. The cloaked individual collapsed to the ground, clutching their chest in pain. Harry watched as blood began to pool onto the pavement. Trembling, he kneeled, and grabbed the collar of the assailant.

This was it. The moment of reckoning.

Trembling, Harry pulled back the hood. As he saw the face, his hand recoiled. He stumbled backwards, mouth gaping. Harry was so shocked, he could barely choke out the words.

_"Mrs. Figg?!"_

The face of the kind old lady stared back at Harry, her eyes wide in surprise. A hand reached up to her chest, feeling the throwing star. Her fingers pulled away, wet with blood.

"It was you, all this time!" Harry sputtered incredulously. "But—how— _why do you want to kill me, Mrs. Figg!?" _

Harry shook the old woman's shoulders, and she flopped back and forth like a bleeding noodle. She shook her head limply, "Not trying... to kill you... Harry..." she choked, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth.

"THEN WHAT?" Harry shrieked.

"Protecting... you..." Mrs. Figg said weakly. "Stay... in Whinging... Only... place safe... from you... know... who..."

"What!? Who?"Harry cried. "I don't know who! _Tell me who!"_

But Arabella took her last breath, and then fell silent.

"Raise deflector shields," Harry whispered reflexively. He was prepared for the sudden onset of paranoia that was sure to accompany this kind of event. Harry took a deep breath, and waited.

But the mental turmoil never came. Instead, everything was quiet.

This was a different kind of quiet. One Harry had never experienced before. It's not like things weren't still making noise— the chirp of the morning wrens, the whirring of sprinklers, and the distant honking of traffic all were there, as usual.

But within Harry's brain, all was silent. The usual onslaught of never ended questions and anxiety-induced worries had been muted. If someone had been watching, they would have seen Harry frozen in place for several moments, shoulders hunched slightly. Then they would have seen a small smile form on the boy's face. He looked down at Mrs. Figg, and a tingling feeling began to spread through his body, starting in his head and traveling all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

_I did that. _Harry thought to himself. He closed his eyes, and leaned his head back, so he could see the thin outline of red veins in his eyelids, illuminated by the rays of the morning sun.

The peace of mind was only momentary. Harry held onto it as long as he could. He stood on his tip toes, almost as if he was trying to escape the rising pandemonium that was about to suffocate him in mere moments.

It wasn't long before Harry was forced to sink beneath the water and return to reality.

_Did anyone see me? Should I run, or hide the body? Where could I hide it? Where would I run? Was Mrs. Figg telling the truth? Is it safe to stay in Little Whinging, or was she making a last ditch attempt to keep me here so Vernon can try to kill me? Then again, people are far more likely to tell the truth in moments of shock or trauma. Could Mrs. Figg actually be trying to protect me? What's the danger of leaving Little Whinging?_

Harry weighed all of these things carefully. Normally, a complex problem with this many factors would have been overwhelming for young Harry, but he was clear-minded. A plot had begun to form in Harry's brain. A conspiracy so diabolical that he questioned if he had ever hatched a plot this ingenious in all of his eleven years.

The plan accounted for everything he knew thus far. Harry would stay in Little Whinging, while eliminating the threat of Vernon, _and_ covering up all evidence of his hand in Mrs. Figg's untimely demise.

Harry was going to frame Uncle Vernon for the murder of Arabella Figg.

* * *

A gust of cold wind blew through the reception area of Granger Dentistry. The doorbell tinkled, and a few snowflakes found refuge on the tile floor, instantly melting into tiny droplets.

A girl with an unruly mane of brown curls looked up from where she sat in a rickety chair. She looked to be no more than eleven years of age, and was swaddled in a thick woolen blanket. Her eyes glanced to the floor, where the snow flakes had melted. A scared-looking boy was being dragged through the door by an annoyed-looking father.

"I'm going to the bank," the man quipped, after forcibly guiding his son to one of the chairs. "Wait here until they call your name."

He turned on his heel and exited back into the harsh blizzard. The boy quickly dropped from the chair and curled into a fetal position on the ground, shivering.

"The floor is all filthy from people coming in and out," the bushy-haired girl said matter-of-factly. The boy raised his head, looking at her curiously. From his vantage point, she looked positively regal, sitting primly on her chair and surveying him with a smug gaze.

"Of course, it's no dirtier than your mouth," she continued. "The mouth is the second dirtiest part of your body, you know. That's why you have to come here to have it cleaned."

There was silence.

"What's the first?" the boy asked quietly.

The girl seemed to level him with her gaze. From the depths of her wool blanket she pulled out a newspaper, and flipped it open.

"The mind," she replied coldly.

The boy did not seem to know what to make of this. He did, however, pick himself up off the floor and sit. "W-what's your name?" he asked timidly.

"Hermione Jane Granger," she replied. "Yours?"

"Thomas."

"Pleasure to meet you, Thomas." Her voice was ice.

The only sound which resonated through the room was the metallic ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. The reception area was painted gray, and was quite drab. There was one picture hanging next the clock, which displayed a disgusting close-up image of a man's mouth. His gangrenous teeth were rotted into tiny black stumps. The caption below the picture read, _'Save yourself'_

"What are you here for, then?" Hermione asked.

"I'm getting my wisdom teeth out," the boy stammered.

"Painful," Hermione said. "My dad will inject you with lidocaine in the roof of your mouth. Multiple times."

Hermione seemed to get grim satisfaction from watching the boy's face sink in utter horror. She returned to reading her book.

"Y-your _dad _is the dentist?" Thomas asked bleakly.

Hermione nodded, "I'm home schooled, so I get to sit in here while they scream. You look like a screamer."

The boy's lower lip wobbled. He put his head in his hands and began to sob quietly. Hermione's lips widened into a smirk. She leaned over in her blanket cocoon, and extended an arm out of its depths to pat the poor lad on the back.

"Tell you what," she murmured. "I can talk to him, if you want. He can knock you out with nitrous oxide instead of lidocaine injection. Quick and painless."

The boy raised his head, giving the foul girl a hopeful and teary look. "R-really?"

"Sure," she replied graciously. "Of course, I'm quite cozy where I am right now. That's a big favor to ask. Especially since he doesn't like to be disturbed while he's working.

The boy's eyes shifted, frantically. His hand plunged into his pocket, and withdrew a small handful of coins. "I have five pounds!"

Hermione's hand shot out once more from the blankets and snatched it from his hand. The money vanished into the recesses of her many pouches.

Hermione had heard the coins clinking in the boy's pocket when he came in. The rest was child's play.

The cruel girl rose from where she was, keeping the blanket wrapped around her neck like a cape. It dragged on the tile floor behind her as she disappeared around the corner. The boy fidgeted nervously in his chair.

She returned a moment later, nose in the air.

"Well?" Thomas asked.

"He says that would be perfectly all right," Hermione replied.

The boy breathed a sigh of relief, "Thanks."

Hermione barely seemed to acknowledge this. She picked up the newspaper again. The front page of the paper blared a headline:

_"11 YEAR OLD BOY LOST TO HOUSE FIRE IN LITTLE WHINGING"_

It was only a few moments later that a stern looking man in a white coat emerged, holding in his hand a clip board. His face was lined like a cracked desert, barren apart from a wiry mustache poking up sparsely on his upper lip.

"Thomas Boroughs," Mr. Granger recited crisply, reading off his clip board.

The young lad leapt to his feet— which surprised Dr. Granger very much. Children were not usually eager to get wisdom teeth out. The two of them disappeared into the back room. The clock ticked quietly, the only other noise being the rustling of newspaper pages.

A few moments later, a piercing scream rang out throughout the office.

Behind the pages of the newspaper, the girl with the bushy hair smirked.


	4. Chapter 4: The Figg Conspiracy

Stipulation(s): She has Harry tightly chained to her radiator, and is feeding him nothing but stale crackers. All attempts to contact him have ended in carnage.

* * *

Chapter 4

The Figg Conspiracy

* * *

A procession of cars rolled into Little Whinging, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. No one could believe their eyes. Women dropped their knitting and rushed to the windows. Toilets were left half-scrubbed, and laundry half-folded. As police tape was unrolled around the macabre scene, curious residents crept from their houses, as if magnetically drawn to the carnage.

Arabella Figg was sprawled out in the driveway of #4 Privet Drive— still leaking blood onto the pavement. The police had stormed the house. Vernon was loaded up into an ambulance and whisked away.

All the while, people whispered. Just what had transpired at #4 Privet Drive that night? Had Mrs. Figg come to _seek revenge?_

"No one saw this coming," the mayor spoke in grave tones to a reporter for the Little Whinging Herald. "This town has never had a homicide. I can reassure you that we are taking _every_ precaution to make sure nothing like this happens again."

Journalists battled for attention, thrusting their microphones into the man's face like a grandmother trying to force Brussels sprouts into the resentful mouth of a child.

"Mr. Mayor, crime analysts for the city have posited that this rise in crime suggests an exponential rate of growth. How do you plan to combat the _four_ expected murders tomorrow?"

"We take our crime rate very seriously," the mayor yelled over the hubbub. "And I can assure you, if there are four deaths in Little Whinging tomorrow, I will _resign_ as mayor."

"Mr. Mayor, were any attempts made to reconcile with Arabella Figg after her disappearance from the town hall?"

The mayor pursed his lips, "Mrs. Figg vanished completely. There was no opportunity to do so."

"Is Vernon Dursley being considered as a suspect for the murder of Arabella and her friendly neighborhood cat, Snowball, whom we had all come to love and cherish?"

"Mr. Dursley is an upstanding member of this community, and I have _personally_ bought drills from him before," the mayor replied firmly. "It's hard to imagine that a man who sells such fine drills could be a heinous killer. Nevertheless, he is under investigation."

The newspapers would never get the chance to run the story of Arabella Figg's death. As the townspeople worried and the police blundered, a secret organization was moving quickly to cover up the remnants of Harry Potter's bloody dispatch, and subsequent framing of Vernon. A mysterious group of hooded figures had appeared on the outskirts of Little Whinging. They stood in a grassy knoll, cloaks billowing in the wind.

"What is the meaning of this?" one of the figures murmured. He was the shortest of the bunch, but the smelliest by far. "I was sleeping."

"Or perhaps drinking," Severus replied in silky tones. "Judging by that _rank_ scent. At seven in the morning, Mundungus?"

Mundungus Fletcher sneered, "What I do on my own time is none of your business, _Snape," _He spat the final word, and took a swig off something that smelled more rancid than he did. There was a edge to his words— almost as if he was on the verge of tears.

"Arabella Figg is dead," Dumbledore said, his eyes glinting. Mundungus was silent, as were the rest of them.

"How, Albus?" Minerva asked, wringing her hands nervously. "First the cat, and now—"

Dumbledore held up a hand, "Now is not the time to discuss how, or even why. Such discussion is better suited for behind closed doors, when in the company of those can keep secrets."

Dumbledore cast a wary glance in Mundungus' direction. The drunkard did not seem to notice the implication, but took another swig indignantly.

"Mad Eye, please explain the method of action," Dumbledore continued.

Alastor took a step forward, eye swiveling, "Harry Potter is attempting to pin the murder of Figg on his uncle. He's done a pretty decent job of it, but the muggle police may be able to find trace remnants of the blood trail left behind from dragging her body halfway across town, which _could_ lead back to Potter. If we move quickly, we can nip this in the bud. Albus and Mundungus will go to the police station to eliminate any evidence they've already collected and get Vernon and Potter out of custody. Severus will go from house to house and obliviate anyone who saw the crime scene. Lastly, Minerva and myself will handle the press. This sting has to be quick, and effective. Remember— _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"_

* * *

A hazy image swam into view. Two blob-like figures, silhouetted against fuzzy gray. The blobs were mostly dark blue, with pink nobs on the top. They were wiggling back and forth. Vernon blinked, trying to get a clearer picture.

"...you hear me?"

A voice. It sounded strange and echoey. Vernon tried to grunt a response.

"Mr. Dursley? Can you hear me?" the voice asked squinted. Oh yes, they were people. Definitely people. Vernon wasn't quite sure if he knew them or not, so he tried to be courteous.

"Pleased to meet you," he slurred, and stuck out a pudgy hand. "I'm afraid I didn't... didn't catch... your name..." He trailed off, feeing rather ill.

"I'm Officer Reynolds, and this is Officer Hamilton," the voice said. "Do you know where you are, Mr. Dursley?"

_Officer? _Vernon smacked his lips, which seemed abnormally dry, "A cup of coffee, perhaps?" he murmured. The two blobs seemed to look at each other for a moment.

"Mr. Dursley, you were involved in a very serious altercation," Officer Reynolds said sternly.

"Could I interest you in switching to Grunnings?" Vernon spouted, convinced he was in a business meeting. "A loud drill is a proud drill." He burped, and it suddenly felt as if a great weight had been lifted off Vernon's shoulders. His head was still spinning, but his vision began to sharpen.

Vernon realized the blue and pink blobs were police. Officer Hamilton slid a cup of coffee across the table. The fat man began to sweat nervously. He had never been interviewed by the police before. Well, except for the numerous times Harry had been kidnapped, but that wasn't really the same.

The two officers kept looking at Vernon in a stern fashion as he drank from the cup, sausage fingers wobbling. "What can I do for you today, officers?" he squeaked, still completely confused as to how he had gotten there.

"Do you recognize this woman?" Officer Reynolds asked. He laid a picture on the metal table. Vernon peered at it.

"Yes, that is my neighbor," Vernon replied. "Arabella Figg." Vernon breathed a heavy sigh of relief. _So that's what all this is about._

"I'm afraid I don't know where she is," he continued. "She disappeared at the town meeting last night, and we haven't seen her since. Now may I go? I'm already late for work."

Vernon tried to stand up, and for the first time, realized that he was hand cuffed. As he rose, Officer Hamilton laid a hand on the holster of his baton.

"Please sit down, Mr. Dursley," the officer said. Vernon's heart pounded.

"Just w-w-what is this about, officers?" he asked, sweat dripping down his brow. Vernon raised his sleeve to wipe his face, and his hand brushed against something unfamiliar. He massaged the top of his head, which was wrapped in bandages.

_Odd..._

"Mrs. Figg was found in your driveway, with _this_ lodged in her chest."

Officer Reynolds held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside, there was a bloody throwing star. Vernon covered his mouth, stopping himself from upchucking all over the policemen.

"Do you recognize this weapon, Mr. Dursley?"

Vernon swallowed, "Yes, I... I purchased it for my son, Dudley." Vernon's eyes darted back and forth between them. He was no good at lying. But he _hadn't _seen Mrs. Figg since the night before. Surely, if he just told the truth, this would all be sorted out.

"Where is my wife Petunia?" Vernon asked. "I would very much like to see her."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question, Mr. Dursley," Hamilton replied. "You are being held indefinitely for questioning."

"Well I already told you, I didn't see anything," Vernon grunted, now growing quite perturbed. "And if you _don't mind,_ I have a lot of work to do today, _and _I have to be back home for my son's birthday at noon."

Officer Reynolds removed some more pictures from his coat, and laid them one by one on the table. They were photos of the interior of the Dursley residence.

"As you can see, Mr. Dursley, it looks like there was a struggle inside your home," Reynolds said. "Your son Harry has informed us—"

"Nephew," Vernon corrected.

"—nephew has informed us that he heard the voices of yourself and Arabella Figg arguing within the house from the cupboard under the stairs. In his deposition, he claims to have heard you two Figghting before going outside."

Officer Reynolds took out some more pictures, and laid them on the table.

"As you can see here, you were found in the street, concussed. The injury to your forehead matches the impact pattern found on the rear-left side window of your car. Mrs. Figg was found in the the road beside you, with the throwing star in her chest. A throwing star which has _your _thumb print on it, and _you _purchased two weeks ago, for your son."

Reynolds leaned in, and his brow furrowed, "Mr. Dursley, just what kind of father buys his eleven year old son a throwing star?"

Vernon's mouth was hanging open, positively flabbergasted. He tried to make noises, but nothing came out except confused squeaks.

Just then, there was a loud string of knocks on the interrogation room door. The police officers looked at each other, brows furrowed. Hamilton rose, and pulled open the door.

A man in great flowing purple robes strode into the room, looking quite stern. He had a white beard longer than Vernon was wide, and a set of half moon spectacles which sat on the bridge of his crooked nose precariously. Though it had been eleven years, Vernon recognized Albus Dumbledore immediately. He was not a man you could readily forget. Vernon had already been deeply uncomfortable, but now he was terrified.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," Dumbledore introduced himself. His hand emerged from his robes. In it was a wand. "Obliviate," he murmured. The officers stumbled back, slack-jawed and glaze-eyed.

"Now, if you don't mind, I request that the two of you leave, so I may have a word _alone _with my client," Dumbledore said softly.

Officer Hamilton and Reynolds looked at Dumbledore with empty expressions, then walked out of the interrogation room. Dumbledore sat down in the chair across from Vernon, and reached into his robes.

"Lemon drop?" he asked.

_"What the bloody hell is going on?" _Vernon hissed, his face turning violet in befuddlement.

"In a few moments I will be returning you to your home for Dudley's birthday," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "And the police will forget this accident ever occurred."

"What about Mrs. Figg?!" Vernon sputtered.

Dumbledore bowed his head, "I'm afraid she is gone," he said softly. "Her death was a tragic accident, and the blame rests squarely on my shoulders. She will be deeply mourned."

"So that's it, then?" Vernon asked.

Dumbledore shrugged. "No one will recollect her death, or your arrest. I am leaving your memory intact, Mr. Dursley, but only as common courtesy. I trust you will not breathe a word of this to anyone?"

Now, normally Vernon Dursley wouldn't have asked questions. He hadn't asked any eleven years prior when he and Petunia had taken in little Harry, after all. In fact, when Dumbledore had begun to explain the dire circumstances the wizarding world was in, Vernon had raised a slightly less pudgy hand and abruptly told Albus that he didn't want to hear it. "We'll take the boy," Vernon had said. "But just keep us out of all this riff raff."

Now, eleven years later, he was up to his elbows in riff raff, and Vernon was _not_ happy.

The man tried to swell up as to seem intimidating to Dumbledore. "I can certainly say that while I appreciate the gesture of _not _erasing my memory, I am still rather incensed about this whole situation."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, "Oh?"

"Indeed," Vernon continued. "This is not what Petunia and I signed on for. I request that you remove my nephew from our care immediately and move him to a location better suited for his... _needs." _

Dumbledore popped the lemon drop into his mouth, "I'm afraid there is no such location."

"A school of some kind? Like the one Petunia's sister went to."

"Such schools would not let Harry attend," Dumbledore replied sadly. "As his very presence poses too much of a threat to the other students."

"There has to be _somewhere."_

Albus regarded Vernon with a steady eye, "There is... one location. However, Harry would be in significantly more danger there than he is here.

_"I don't want to hear it!" _Vernon hissed. "You will move him, or we will throw him out on the streets to fend for himself."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed, "Harry Potter must continue to call #4 Privet Drive his home."

There was a resoluteness to Dumbledore's words. A finality that even dimwitted Vernon understood was not to be questioned any further.

"No one is more regretful of the situation than I," Dumbledore continued wearily. "But magic binds and protects him there, with or without my enchantments over the valley. Return to your home, and enjoy the festivities."

Dumbledore rose to his feet, looking at Vernon with a glint in his eye, "Please grab ahold of my arm. Mr. Dursley."

"Pardon me?"

"My arm. Grab hold."

Vernon cautiously laid his fingers to rest on Dumbledore's arm. One loud pop later, they had teleported from the interrogation room, leaving no evidence in their wake but a half depleted cup of coffee and a station full of very incompetent and confused policemen.

* * *

If it hadn't been for the sirens, Petunia Dursley may have never awoken in time for Dudley's birthday. Passed out in Mrs. Figg's flower bed, Petunia was immersed in unpleasant dreams about being slowly consumed in a never-ending furnace of green flame. It was all very peculiar, and she rolled around enough throughout the ordeal to quench any hope the tulips beneath her once had of growing back.

After an eternity of being burned to death in the emerald inferno, the hue shifted to blue. And then red. Blue and red, back and forth, accompanied by a loud wail.

_Is my Dudley burning?_

Petunia searched in the flame for her baby as the wail got louder and louder. By the time Petunia finally identified the sound as_ police sirens _and realized she was dreaming, the squad cars had pulled around the corner of the street. Petunia's first thought upon hearing the sirens was that they were coming for _her. _Disoriented and still half-unconscious, Petunia grabbed the sugar bowl and hid in the hedges between #4 Privet Drive and the Figg residence. While in hiding, she mulled over what had happened, trying to figure out the catalyst for her unexpected fainting spell.

Petunia ended up deducing that the cause of her collapse was probably dehydration coupled with sleep deprivation. This wasn't a bad guess for a woman of her mental capabilities, however, it was a false deduction nonetheless. The real reason she collapsed was from orally ingesting a smidgeon of a highly toxic magical substance with teleportation capabilities that was absorbed into the blood stream, causing her body temperature to sky rocket and inducing sudden hyperthermia. It's really a wonder she didn't suffer acute heat stroke death, but Petunia's body was resilient.

Petunia's heart pounded as the police cars drove past Mrs. Figg's house and came to a halt outside the Dursley residence. Petunia stared, wondering why they weren't coming for her...

This is when she set eyes on Vernon, and the body sprawled out beside him. Petunia gasped, covering her mouth in horror. She could do nothing but stand and watch, her body paralyzed by shock. Her _husband _was being loaded into the ambulance. And Mrs. Figg's corpse put into a body bag!

Petunia was rather distraught. She would have run from the hedge, but her legs refused. Had Vernon killed Mrs. Figg?

_Our family is ruined. He will go to prison I will be left alone. Dudley will be heartbroken... probably will need counseling, but even that won't heal the wounds. All the other children at school will know his father is a murderer. He will lose all of this friends, and become an outcast, all the while wondering why his father did it. He will blame me, since I did not satisfy Vernon as a wife. At first he won't talk to me. He'll shut me out, and begin listening to strange music and stop washing his hair. The doctor will give him medication to help with these dark behaviors, but poor Dudley will become an addict. I will try to reach out to him, but every time I do he will push me away. "You don't understand, mum!" he will say, and lock himself in his room. But then, one night, he will sneak into my bedroom, high on drugs. Haunted by the sins of his father, he will stand above my sleeping form, kitchen knife in hand. Then he will stab me in the heart. My sheets will be ruined, and he will go to prison. My little boy, in prison. The other inmates would pass him around. Take advantage of my poor Dudley. I can't even bear to think about it—_

Petunia felt like she was being strangled. Her throat seized up, and her breath escaped in short frantic bursts. For some reason she had become very aware of the branches around her. It felt like they were closing in— raking against her skin and trying to entrap her in the hedge. Petunia shrieked and collapsed onto the ground, thrashing around in the brambles. Just then there was a flash of light, accompanied by a strange word uttered in silky tones from the mouth of her sister's suitor.

_"Obliviate!"_

* * *

"I was sleeping when I first heard arguing. It was quiet at first... a man and a woman were talking. I recognized my uncle's voice, and assumed the woman was Aunt Petunia. I figured they were up early, preparing for Dudley's party. They always get into little spats about things. But then the arguing didn't stop. It kept getting louder and louder... I realized the other voice wasn't my aunt at all, but I... I still recognized it. It was Mrs. Figg, my neighbor. I put my ear to the door, trying to hear what they were arguing about. I heard something about a... a snowball. Not really sure what that means... Mrs. Figg kept saying _'I knew it! I knew it was you!'_. My uncle seemed to get really mad, and said that he was sick of her cats wandering into our yard and what not. Then there was a sort of thudding sound, like someone fell onto the floor. I heard the tearing of wrapping paper, and then Mrs. Figg started to scream. There was some more struggling. It sounded like someone ran into the dinner table, but I can't be sure. The door slammed, and I heard Vernon follow Mrs. Figg out into the street. And... and that's all I know."

Harry fell silent. He was in the interrogation room, looking down at his trainers with his hands crossed in his lap. The two officers sitting across from him were scribbling in tiny notebooks.

"Harry, did you ever see your uncle behaving strangely towards Mrs. Figg in the past?"

Harry looked up at them, with wide and innocent eyes. His rib cage was taking a considerable beating from his heart, and he fidgeted uncontrollably. Harry hoped they would interpret his anxious behavior as a natural response to being through a traumatic event, instead of lying.

"Not really..." Harry paused. "Well... I guess... last night when my aunt and uncle got home, I overheard them talking. He said something about... settling the score."

"The score? What score?"

Harry purposefully squirmed, "I don't know."

The officers scribbled for a few more moments.

"All right, Harry. You'll have to stay in here for the time being. I'll have Linda bring you some crackers. Do you like crackers?"

Harry nodded, in a manner he hoped seem earnest.

The two officers exited the room. Crackers were delivered shortly thereafter by a secretary. She wore too much makeup and smelt of the pine-scented wood polish Petunia sometimes used on their furniture. Harry took a single bite out of one cracker, but it was dreadfully stale, and unnaturally salty. He swallowed the clump of processed grain, his mouth rather dry.

Harry considered asking for a glass of water, but he didn't want to seem suspicious.

_That isn't suspicious, that's a perfectly reasonable thing to ask for._

_If I were them I would think it's suspicious._

_But you only think that because you know you murdered Mrs. Figg._

_Shhh!_

_What? They can't hear you._

_How do you know?_

_Because people can't hear your thoughts._

_Maybe._

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wondered if the seats in interrogation rooms were specifically made to make sitting as uncomfortable as possible. If Harry designed interrogation rooms, he would have made the rooms very warm, and then coated the chair with something sticky. He also would have made the lights flicker, so it would give them a headache.

Harry sat for quite awhile, getting more anxious with each passing minute. He found himself eating more crackers, not because he wanted to, but because there was nothing else to do.

_But that's what they want. _He thought to himself. _The crackers are probably laced with truth serum._

Harry swallowed nervously.

"I am the Queen of England," he lied out loud to test his theory. His words reverberated around the room. Harry decided to give it another try, in case he actually _was_ the Queen of England, and just didn't know it.

"I can do a cart wheel."

"Any half-decent wizard can."

Startled, Harry whipped around.

Standing behind him was...

"Dr. Fletcher?" Harry asked, dumbfounded.

The drunk old cad took a gulp of something that smelled like hand sanitizer and put his hands over his head. One cartwheel later, he was standing right in front of Harry, smiling with a mouthful of corn kernel teeth. Dr. Fletcher was not wearing his stained lab coat, but was instead in a strange mangy robe of some kind. It looked a bit like a bath robe, and given his bare stumpy legs, Harry was relatively certain the doctor was not wearing anything underneath.

"Hello Harry," the man mumbled. "I'm here to take you back home. Doctor's orders."

Harry took a step back, and dramatically declared the words he had thought his entire life:

_"You aren't a doctor."_

There was a long tension filled silence.

"No. No I am not," Mundungus burped. "Now pull my finger. We haven't got time to dilly dally."

"No!" Harry snapped. "Absolutely not."

"Why?" Mundungus snorted. "Would you rather I reveal your framing scheme to the muggles?"

Harry's mouth gaped, "How—you—" His face drained of color, _"What's a muggle?"_

Without replying, Mundungus grabbed Harry's arm.

* * *

Thick plumes of black smoke filled the Dursley home, spilling out of the kitchen and into the living room. The fire alarm blared incessantly, paired with the wretched coughing issued forth from the mouth of one Petunia Dursley.

She opened up the windows and swatted at the air with her oven-mitted hands, as if trying to deter an imaginary swarm of insects. She grabbed the painting ladder and hauled it into the kitchen. After scampering up the ladder and turning off the fire alarm, Petunia inspected the damage to the birthday cake, which was sitting forlornly on the kitchen counter, still smoldering.

It was_ slightly _blackened, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a little extra frosting. Dudley often liked to lick the frosting off the cake before letting anyone else eat it, so he probably wouldn't even notice the charring.

The cake_ should_ have turned out perfectly. Petunia followed the recipe to a painstakingly fastidious degree, measuring each ingredient eight or nine times for accuracy and standing hawk-like by the oven as it baked. The only difference in the recipe was the slightly off-color sugar, but Petunia didn't think that would have affected the outcome of the cake _this _drastically.

She had awoken in front of the fridge at around nine o clock or so, with a throbbing head ache and a curious sensation of feeling somehow incomplete as a human being. Petunia shook the feeling. Having experienced depressive moods in college, she knew the best way to deal with feelings of agonizing inadequacy was to isolate herself and delve into a repetitive mind-numbing task, such as clipping her toe nails or brushing her teeth.

The last thing she remembered was bringing presents into the house with Harry.

_"So you will become strong. Just like Petunia."_

The words skittered around in her skull like beads in a baby rattle. It was time to be strong. A breakneck birthday cake-bake was just what Petunia needed to fill the widening hole of disorientation in her addled mind.

Petunia cracked each of her bony fingers. This is when she spotted a bowl on the counter, accompanied by a note.

_Petunia,_

_I noticed there wasn't any sugar in the house. I picked some up before work, so you could bake Dudley's cake._

_With Love,_

_Vernon_

Petunia was perplexed. The script was a slanted cursive. Certainly not how she had imagined Vernon's handwriting to be. Of course, she had never seen her husband write anything before. She had just assumed he was incapable.

Petunia shrugged and threw the note in the rubbish bin, not giving it a second thought, and use the peculiar gray sugar for baking.

This note would later burn up with the rest of the Dursley home, eliminating the last shred of evidence linking Severus Snape to the torching of #4 Privet Drive.

Now, Petunia was feeling rather heady once more, having just inhaled the smoldering fumes from the burnt cake that had been baked using the mysterious powder she had stolen from the mantle of her ex-neighbor's house, but subsequently lost all memory of.

Petunia sighed in resignation and continued to waft the air. She wrinkled her nose, repulsed by the smell. No sooner that she had, the woman realized that wrinkling her nose would cause _wrinkles, _and quickly unwrinkled it, returning to her usual vacant expression.

_You don't have the time to bake another cake anyway. _She reminded herself. _So there's no use considering it. Stupid Petunia, always wasting time._

Petunia relinquished a sigh so crushing it rivaled Vernon's bedroom antics.

_A steamy bout of dish-washing ought to perk me up, _she thought to herself. Petunia began to run the hot water, when suddenly there was a loud noise from directly behind her. It sounded as if someone had cracked a horsewhip, combined with the static popping of a malfunctioning audio system.

Petunia nearly leaped out of her skin. Her hand reflexively found the whisk, which she brandished menacingly as she twirled around, preparing to thwart the rapist who had surely broken into her house.

Instead, she found herself face to face with her nephew, Harry Potter, whose bony wrist was in the drunken grasp of Mundungus Fletcher, who was swaying back and forth in a crusty bath robe.

Harry had just been yanked through a multi-dimensional vortex, and instantly spewed all over the kitchen floor. Petunia shrieked and threw the whisk into the puddle of vomit, where it landed limply amongst the chunks of half-digested discharge.

Now, Mundungus Fletcher did not toss his cookies often. In fact, he prided himself in being pukeless since he was an infant— except for that nasty gastro-intestinal bug he had caught back in '82 from spending a night with Charity Burbage. Mundungus held his liquor exceptionally well, and had never once gotten an A.U.I. Usually he could apparate while intoxicated without throwing up. But on this particular morning, Mundungus Fletcher was at least twice as drunk as usual. The death of Snowball had perturbed him more than anyone else in the Order, namely because he had traded Snowball to Mrs. Figg for a pack of cigarettes back in the first wizarding war, and regretted the decision ever since. Perhaps the man was exaggerating the emotional impact of the feline's death to have a valid excuse for getting unreasonably plastered— but the more Mundungus thought about it, the more devastated it made him feel (as will happen when someone is as positively and unashamedly shit-faced). At the exact moment he had gotten the urgent owl from Dumbledore calling a secret conspiratorial meeting on the outskirts of Little Whinging, Mundungus had been sobbing uncontrollably, curled up on the floor of his phony medical practice. With his grieving cut short by Order operations, the man had been thrown into this mess with unresolved emotional issues gnawing away inside of him. But even then, Mundungus would not have expected an upchucking. He had seen many friends die gruesome deaths while intoxicated, and apparated away, without effect. But the sight and smell of Harry Potter's puke was ghastly, and on top of everything else, he _just couldn't take it. _Mundungus felt the bile rise in his throat and knew what was coming. In a moment of improvised brilliance, the man released Harry, then vanished once more, leaving #4 Privet Drive before there could be any witnesses to his tarnished record.

Harry and Aunt Petunia regarded each other in astonished silence. Harry, because he had just _teleported_. Petunia, because there was a fresh pile of vomit on her kitchen floor, which was just _one more thing _to clean before Dudley's party.

"STAIRS!" she screamed shrilly, her expression changing to pure unadulterated rage. Harry knew this expression all too well. Petunia's visage had subtly shifted from that of an average sane housewife to an unpredictable creature of hateful vengeance that could inflict deep scratches to the face with her chipped talons.

Harry scrambled for the door to the cupboard, his head still reeling. As he retreated to the solitude of his spider-webbed kingdom, Harry pondered. The boy had experienced similar circumstances once before, but over the years he had convinced himself that his recollection _must_ be flawed.

_One minute I was buying circus peanuts, and the next I was in a graveyard getting my arm cut open._

There was only one plausible explanation— drugs. For the longest time, Harry had accepted this as the only interpretation worth considering, because to assume his enemies possessed faster-than-light travel capabilities was nutty as a fruitcake.

But mere minutes ago, Harry had bore witness to the_ same phenomenon._ One minute he was in the interrogation room with Mundungus, and the next he was in the Dursley home.

Now, Harry considered himself to be _reasonably_ paranoid. It's a wonder he wasn't _more _paranoid, considering the vast plethora of traumatizing events scattered throughout his youth. He felt his paranoia was somewhat justified, given the circumstances. Harry was also rapidly finding that reality was even stranger than he imagined it to be.

Harry considered the crackers. They had been dry, most certainly. But had they contained a psychoactive compound that could cause this kind of mental hijinks? He considered the implications.

_If the crackers were spiked, that means the police could have been conspiring with Dr. Fletcher. But how did Dr. Fletcher get inside the room without me noticing? _

_He was hiding in a secret compartment in the walls._

_B) Dr. Fletcher was actually a delirium-induced hallucination caused by the crackers, and he was never there in the first place._

Harry took a deep breath. Possibility B was the most likely.

"Aunt Petunia!" Harry yelled.

_"Quiet!"_

"Aunt Petunia, did you see Dr. Fletcher in our kitchen just a moment ago?"

_"I said quiet!"_

"Just a yes or no!"

_"YES! Now hush up or I'll put this mess back where it came from!"_

Harry wrung his hands together. He had secretly hoped Dr. Fletcher hadn't been real. The issue with Possibility A was that it accounted for the doctor's appearance in the interrogation room, but it did _not_ explain his exit from the kitchen. On top of this, Harry did not feel drugged. A substance capable of creating these kinds of alterations to perception would no doubt possess some severe side effects. But our little Harry was feeling perfectly fine— well, apart from mounting confusion permeating every iota of his being.

In addition to this, a single word looped endlessly within his young mind.

_Muggle..._

Just as Petunia finished scrubbing the final flecks of Harry's breakfast off the kitchen tile, there was another ear-splitting pop, accompanied by a torrential downpour of a chunky brew cooked in the cavernous recesses of Uncle Vernon's gut.

Petunia's head and shoulders received the brunt of the regurgitation.

"Oh dear," Dumbledore remarked, and waved his wand, cleaning up the mess before Petunia had the chance to descend into irreversible dementia.

The woman took one look at her husband and burst into tears, throwing her arms around him and squeezing him so hard Vernon almost regained sensation in his extremities.

"There, there, dear," Vernon burped, patting her on the back.

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with joy, "A happy family, back together once more," he said wistfully. "I do apologize profusely for any ill that has befallen you. It has been a trying time for all of us. Enjoy this day for what it is... a celebration of life."

With that, the great wizard vanished, leaving the reunited Dursleys in an embrace slightly more passionate than a snake constricting a hippopotamus.

* * *

Atop a grassy knoll overlooking the village, five magical beings stood resolute, in wake of what would come to be known as the Figg Conspiracy.

All had gone according to plan— or so it would seem.

The mark of a good plan is its ability to incorporate other plans within itself. A true master planner anticipates the actions of his foes and assimilates them into their own scheme. Such was the case in our dark tale. Even the wisest, Dumbledore himself, could not see the unfolding treachery within Little Whinging. He could not detect the betrayal within his ranks, nor could he predict the horrors soon to unfold at the zoo in mere hours, as the wheels of a nefarious plot were set in motion.

Not unlike a runaway red steam engine en route to a dangerous castle, the momentum of this stratagem could not be stopped.

Perhaps it was a sense of impending cataclysm in the pit of her stomach that caused Minerva McGonagall to speak.

"Arabella was... loyal. She was strong. For a woman that could not do magic, she cared a great a great deal for the wizarding world. More than most."

Her words resonated in the quiet breeze, "Eleven years ago, we asked her to watch the Potter boy. And watch him she did. She served the Order with bravery, and she will be missed."

"Her cake always tasted a few steps short of tremendous," Mad Eye said wryly. Minerva and Dumbledore chuckled. "But the same can not be said for Arabella Figg. She was a warrior. A hero. And a friend."

Mundungus spoke next. His words ran into each other in a slurred garble, so no one was quite sure what he was saying, but it sounded like a tender and heartfelt eulogy for Snowball. They all nodded in solemn agreement.

Albus contemplated the shape of things to come. What was to become of the Potter boy? Was it right to keep him here, isolated from the world, in the name of protection? Could the sanctuary of #4 Privet Drive remain intact, despite the darkness growing within young Harry?

The sun had now climbed high above, hanging in the pure baby blue sky and casting rays of light onto Dumbledore's brazen face. He reached into one of the deep pockets of his robes and removed a sticky lint-covered lemon drop, sliding it between his lips and tasting the tang of the savory candy, marveling at the hue of the horizon... almost as brilliant an azure as his own irises.

All of this was watched by a set of steely eyes, set in the skull of a bird of prey. A disgruntled hoot escaped the beak of an owl perched in a nearby conifer. With a regal ruffle of its wings, the tremendous creature of the night took flight, jostling a pine cone loose as it burst forth from the branches where it had been conducting surveillance.


	5. Chapter 5: Serpent Relinquished

Stipulation(s): Harry is still in captivity, and has developed Stockholm's Syndrome for JK Rowling.

* * *

Chapter 5

Serpent Relinquished

* * *

The hands of the clock were in no hurry during third hour maths. They had been leisurely creeping for what seemed like eons now. Just dawdling along, with no regard to Dudley's irritation or mounting impatience. In fact, it seemed that the more impatient he got, the more laggard the pace of the clock.

Dudley had a neat pile of bogies on the corner of his desk, which he had scraped from the inside of his nasal cavity with the eraser of his pencil. He had first arranged the detritus by color, ranging from green to dark brown. Since then, he had rearranged according to size, stickiness, and elasticity.

Half the fun had been watching the shade of the girl's face sitting next to him drain of color throughout the nauseating categorization. But Dudley had grown bored with the bogies before long and now was slumped over on his desk, watching the hypnotic tick-tock of the clock with a slack-jawed expression.

His maths professor was prattling on about parabolas. Dudley didn't really understand what they were, but it seemed to him as if the world be be a lot better off without such things.

_The world needs less parabolas and more punching._

Dudley wished he was the prime minister, so he could make laws about these matters. Just as he was pondering a law requiring people like his cousin Harry to live in cages so you could poke them with big sharp sticks, this reminded him of the zoo, which reminded him of the clock all over again. He noticed that only three seconds had passed. Dudley gritted his teeth and grabbed the pile of bogies, squishing it in his hand so it oozed out between his fingers. He imagined it was his math professor's head.

Just then, a timid hand touched Dudley on the shoulder. It was so light a touch that Dudley almost didn't notice it. He swiveled in his desk (a difficult feat, given how tightly he was squeezed into it). A waif-thin girl with buck teeth handed Dudley a folded up note.

Dudley quickly wiped his hand off on his pants and grabbed the note, unfolding it greedily. Any distraction from the sluggish tick was welcome.

_Let's bring Professor Jameson to the zoo and push him in the shark tank and see if he gets eaten._

_From,_

_ Piers_

Dudley sniggered at this and quickly turned over the note, scrawling a reply on the back.

_Probably wouldn't eat him, he smells too bad! HAHA_

But it was actually spelled like this:

_Probablee wudnt eet him, he smels to bad! HAHA_

Dudley folded the note back up and handed it back. He craned his neck, looking at Piers on the other side of the room. The two boys exchanged devious glances.

Dudley swung back around to look at the clock. Twenty minutes until noon. But he couldn't wait any longer. Dudley's hand shot up in the air.

"...we see that ellipses and parabolas are members of a closer-knit family, known as _conic sections. _Curves obtained by cutting... yes, Mr. Dursley?"

Dudley removed himself from his seat in a violent motion which made the rest of the class wince and reduced the lifespan of the desk significantly. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out the note Petunia had written that morning. He waved it proudly above his head.

"Professor Jameson, it's my birthday today and I am going to the zoo and I have a note to prove it!" he declared obnoxiously.

The professor regarded Dudley with a perplexed expression, "Bring it here."

Dudley strutted to the front of the room and thrust the note into the professor's face. The man grimaced and took the note delicately, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Having observed Dudley in class, he knew the boy's slimy hands were routinely engaged in all manner of repulsive and shameful acts.

"It says noon," the man sighed.

"I have to go to the boys room, and my mum is usually early," Dudley replied. "And also, I would like to get a drink."

Now, the professor was not a stupid man. On the contrary, he had graduated with honors and written several papers on mathematics that had been universally lauded in his field. He was a man who loved numbers, for they spoke to him more than his wife. But this man's love was not shared by the majority. For many, mathematics remains a frustrating enigma— an alien world of strange hieroglyphs that holds no relation to reality. Of course, the opposite is true. These cryptic symbols dictate everything, creating elegant proofs that describe the remarkable inner workings of our universe. Professor Jameson had come to a crossroads in his education— should he go into formalized mathematics, and work with those who understood his language? Should he spend his days in rooms that smelt of chalk and brimmed with the vibrancy of great minds intersecting? Or should he instill inspiration by showing young minds the profundity of numbers, and make mathematics accessible to a whole new generation? He had chosen the latter, which is how he had ended up at St. Grogory's in Little Whinging, teaching children like Dudley Dursley.

There are few decisions he regretted more.

Perhaps ten years earlier in his career, he would not have let Dudley go. But he had learned long ago that as a teacher, you have to pick your battles. Sometimes it didn't matter how much effort you put into a child's education— they were still going to be nasty little prats.

"All right, have fun," he conceded.

Piers scrambled out from behind his desk and raced to the front of the room. He and Dudley exchanged high fives and smirks— as if Dudley's lies had actually granted them early departure. In actuality, every minute that those two were out of the class room was a minute they weren't passing notes, kicking other students in the shins, making obscene noises, or otherwise disrupting class. The professor was glad to see them gone.

Dudley lumbered down the hallway with Piers in tow.

Piers liked hanging out with Dudley, mostly for political reasons. Piers was thin and lanky, with limbs that seemed disproportionate to his awkwardly shaped torso. He also had a slight hunch, and a face reminiscent of a rodent. Due to his ugliness and nasally intonation, Piers had been the subject of harsh derision at his old school. When he moved to St. Grogory's, Piers knew he would have to play his cards carefully. On his first day, no one sat next to him at lunch except for a squeaky runt of a boy named Jeremiah. The eyes of the entire student body were on the new kid and the outcast. Jeremiah introduced himself and stuck out his hand. Piers dumped milk all over the boy's head, punched him in the nose, and called him a freak. For several seconds there was silence in the lunch room. An act of unmitigated cruelty of that magnitude had never been witnessed. A snicker rang through the quiet crowd. A snicker that soon evolved into a full blown guffaw. It came from Dudley.

From that point on, Dudley and Piers had been best friends.

The two comrades exited the school and sauntered onto the playground. This was their realm of power. A domain that lay unchallenged, for anyone that whimpered so much as a word of insubordination would feel the wrath of Dudley's hammy fists. Dudley was king, and Piers was prince. Harry held the place of court jester. He provided entertainment for everyone in the kingdom, and always laughed along with the harsh rulings of King Dudley, even if he was on the receiving end. Dudley did not understand his cousin at all, and held the accurate opinion that Harry was a certifiable nut job.

Dudley and Piers sat under the shade of the slide and scratched their names into the metal using rocks. Dudley etched a crown next to his name, so future generations of wimps would know he was king long after he had departed.

"Is your cousin coming to the zoo?" Piers asked.

"No," Dudley replied, and tossed his rock on the ground.

"Aw, why not?!"

"Because."

"Cause why?"

"Cause I said so, that's why!" Dudley snarled, and his face grew pink with fury.

Piers was a good friend, but he also had a loud mouth, and Dudley wasn't about to blab about Harry killing Snowball. Then the whole school would find out, and Harry would be _more feared than Dudley. _No, that wouldn't do at all.

"Is it because he killed your neighbor's cat?"

Dudley grabbed Piers by the collar, _"Where did you hear that from?"_

Piers gasped for air, clutching weakly at his collar, _"Every—everyone—k-knows—it—"_

Dudley strangled the boy for a few more seconds before letting him loose. Piers massaged his neck as Dudley got to his feet with much difficulty, then began to pace the playground.

"Dudley?"

"Shut it! I'm thinking!"

Piers was taken off guard. He had never seen Dudley engage in this particular activity before. The fat boy sweated in the heat, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Finally, after much deliberation, he turned to Piers, looking even more irate than usual.

"Harry probably thinks he's pretty tough, doesn't he? Killing a cat like that. Probably thinks he's the meanest bloke in town. I'll show him mean. Killing cats! Ha! Harry is going to the zoo with us. And I'm going to get _him killed by a cat!"_

Piers blinked confusedly, "Killed by a...a cat? What cat? I have Gingersnap, but he was de-clawed ages ago."

_"A lion cat!" _Dudley roared.

There was silence between king and prince. Then a slow grin spread across Piers face, "I get it!" he sneered. "He killed a cat, but then, he gets killed _by _a cat. Bloody brilliant, that is."

"I know," Dudley smirked pompously.

A few moments later, the Dursley family vehicle pulled up outside St. Grogory's to pick up the two boys for what was to be the worst birthday of Dudley Dursley's life.

* * *

_"Muggles"_

-Members of a secret government organization

_-League of assassins._

_-Masterminds of the criminal underworld_

_-Tribe of savages_

_-Fake mythological creatures used for instilling fear in children_

Harry sat back in his chair and looked at the paper, tapping his pencil against his temple rhythmically as he weighed the options. He had compiled a short list of all the possible meanings for 'muggles.'

_Would you rather I reveal your framing scheme to the muggles?_

Dr. Fletcher's words bounced around in his brain, knocking everything neat and orderly askew.

Harry wished he could get out from the cupboard under the stairs and go use Dudley's computer to search for the word 'muggle.' But for now all he had was a tattered copy of the Merriam-Webster, and there was no entry for the word. All Harry had was his wits and a keen eye for detecting malfeasance.

As far as Harry could tell, the statement had been issued as a threat. 'Muggles' were something that could bring great misfortune upon him_ if_ informed of Harry's antics. As in... they would not be overly fond of what Harry had done. But why?

Presumably, because the framing scheme would somehow _harm _them, and their plans. Which by extension meant...

Harry sat upright in his chair, heart pounding.

_Is Uncle Vernon... a muggle?_

Were Dr. Fletcher's words proof that Vernon was _involved_ with Harry's kidnappers? Was this the final nail in the coffin to indubitably confirm his role as a sleeper agent, planted at Privet Drive and waiting for the opportune moment to kill an unsuspecting Harry? Would his arrest have led the police to more clues that could have eventually uncovered the secret network of assassins?

_Are 'muggles' the same people that had been after Harry all this time?!_

The evidence certainly seemed to point in that direction. Further confirmation of Harry's theory rested in the articulations of the late Mrs. Figg, who had dramatically uttered these parting words:

_"Stay... in Whinging... Only... place safe... from you... know... who..."_

Now Harry was _sure_ he knew who.

Muggles.

Harry madly scribbled all of this down in his notebook. Unfortunately, the boy knew very little details about these creeps. But if Vernon was _one of them_, that meant Harry could _use him _to find out more. The question was if Uncle Vernon would ever talk. He was obviously an excellent actor if he had kept up the facade of a dimwitted obese suburban husband all these years. But Harry had methods. He could crack Vernon. He was sure of it.

Just as it all was coming together, Harry was startled by the creak of the cupboard door, and the rawboned shape of Petunia towering over him. Harry quickly closed the notebook and shoved it under his mattress.

"Come on, then! Get up!" she snapped.

Harry's heart banged in frenetic syncopation.

_Of course they have hidden surveillance... Why didn't I think of that.  
_

"I said get up! You're going to the zoo."

_Huh?_

Harry was incredulous. Given the recent events, he was certain he wouldn't be attending Dudley's birthday outing this year. The boy got to his feet, brushing cobwebs and dust balls off his clothing. Petunia's wraith-like hand grabbed Harry's wrist and skillfully extracted him from the cupboard.

As Harry was dragged from the front door to the car, he saw three sets of eyes watching him from within the vehicle. Harry wasn't sure who looked more vengeful— Vernon, Dudley, or Piers.

"Morning," Harry greeted them as Petunia thrust him into the back seat and slammed the door.

No one replied, but rather, ignored him completely.

As the automobile trundled through the streets its axles worked at full force to accommodate the heft of its cargo. Though they only represented forty percent of the passengers, Dudley and Vernon's weight constituted eighty percent of the cumulative mass (including the car itself). The Dursleys had stopped driving places in great frequency long ago, because the petrol costs became too high.

Harry pressed his face against the cool glass of the car window and looked at his reflection, trying to catch a glance of himself without making eye contact. This was impossible, of course, because you only see the reflection when you look at it, and whenever you look at it, the reflection is looking back at you. Harry liked to think that if he looked really fast, he could maybe catch a glimpse of himself without locking eyes. It all happened so fast, so it seemed instantaneous. Harry had once asked his science professor how they knew that the mirror was following your actions, and not the other way around. His professor had looked confused, before explaining that there's a minuscule amount of time that it takes for the photons to hit the mirror and then travel back to your eyes, but since it is traveling at the speed of light, you just doesn't notice it.

"But then that means I don't see everything _right away,_" Harry replied. "I see it after it happens."

"Precisely," the professor had said. "Our telescopes are only just now seeing stars exploding millions of years ago, because it takes that long for the light to reach Earth."

"What if someone intercepts the light waves?"

"Pardon?"

"What if, right now, someone was intercepting the light waves before they hit my eyes and using a machine to erase something so I can't see it, or make me see something that isn't there?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow... are you asking if something can _block_ light?"

Harry continued playing the game with his window reflection, recalling this conversation. As far as he concerned, all bets were still off on matters of perception. For everything that he could see, hear, touch, feel, and smell, there was a near infinite amount of other stimuli he didn't sense. Other color spectrums and high-frequency sound waves— not to mention all of the radiant energy. Sharks had specialized sensing nodules in their pores that could sense electromagnetic fields. Harry had learned this the last time he was at the zoo. He sometimes wished he was a shark, so he could detect such things. Then again, he didn't wish it, because then he would lack sentience, and be pretty limited in that sense.

What Harry _really_ wished is that he could grow the sensory organs of a shark, but still retain full cognitive function. Then he could test if someone was using some long-range electromagnetic device to control his brain, which could explain the fugue states. It wasn't the most probable hypothesis, but it sure would make Harry feel a lot better to disprove it.

_Yes, that would do quite nicely. The pores of a shark. And the lips of a snake..._

Snakes possessed heat receptors in their lips. To have heat vision would be remarkably useful in detecting attackers. Not to mention their nose. Snake noses adapted with their tongues to work together by capturing scent particles in the air and transforming it into olfactory information, forming one of the most powerful chemosensory devices in all of the animal kingdom.

"What are you laughing at?" Vernon retorted.

Harry realized he had been giggling, imagining himself with a flat face and a snake tongue, with grey skin like a shark. He promptly shut himself up, in the interest of preventing a backseat pummeling.

After an eerily uneventful car ride, they reached their destination. What followed was not unlike a disemboweling of sorts— the fleshy and sweaty members of the party squeezing out from the doors of the car. It reminded Harry of the nature channel he had sometimes watched at Mrs. Figg's house, when they would sometimes do specials on amazing animal births.

After everyone was on their feet, and accounted for, Vernon fed coins into the ever-hungry parking meter, and the day trip at the zoo commenced.

Given that it was a week day, there wasn't a huge abundance of foot traffic. This was something of a blessing, given the spacial needs of the family. Not to mention Dudley and Piers' tendency to engage in loud-mouthed insolent quasi-sadistic behavior towards the animals. This included pounding on glass, screaming demands, and throwing food at them.

The zoo was divided into sections, each one focusing on a different subset of the animal kingdom. Patrons walked around in a big loop, and had the option of being led by a tour guide. The Dursleys had gotten a tour guide one year, but it had turned out disastrously. All Dudley had asked about was fecal matter.

_"Do the zoo keepers clean up a lot of poo?"_

_"Which poo is the smelliest?"_

_"Do the animals ever eat their own poo?"_

And so on and so forth, until the tour guide had gotten disgusted and left. This was a shame, since Harry had actually learned a lot from that tour, such as the information on sharks and snakes that he had reflected upon during the car trip.

As Harry peered into exhibits, he realized something peculiar going on. Well, actually, nothing was going on, which was the peculiar part. The usual jabs to his ribcage and pernicious taunts were absent. Harry looked over his shoulder, scanning the room for his cousin.

Dudley and Piers were standing over by the eel tank, but they hardly seemed to be looking at eels. Instead, they were whispering to each other in conspiratorial tones, every once and awhile stealing a glance over at Harry.

Harry knew planning when he saw it. He would just have to be twice as careful as usual. Of course, he was already on tenterhooks, given that he was currently outside Little Whinging, where the muggles would be able to snatch him. The aquarium area was far too dark. Harry did not like the eery blue glow from the tanks, and he got the sense that someone could be lurking in the shadows. He took a deep breath and walked briskly out, making the decision to stay one step ahead of the Dursleys.

This is how Harry found himself in the reptile house.

Right away, he knew something was not right. A tension blossomed in his forehead, emanating from the curiously shaped lightning shaped scar that resided there. The same sensation that had resonated throughout his body after the death of Mrs. Figg.

Harry knew he should leave. Whatever was happening, something catastrophic was sure to follow. Harry recalled words from a television program he had watched at Mrs. Figg's house.

_There is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries._

Harry shuddered, and his eyes grew wide. He could not turn back now. Not when answers were so very appetizing.

The boy approached the pane of glass to which his inner demon beckoned. Asleep in the cage was a serpent of such immensity, he couldn't help but stand in awe. Thick coils of scaly flesh, stacked upon one another in glossy patterned rings. It had to be at least fifteen feet long, and as thick as Uncle Vernon's calf.

From the coiled mass, a triangular head emerged, leveling with Harry and giving him a perceptive wink.

Harry took a step back, head reeling.

_Sentient snake!_

"Hello, little boy," the viper spoke, tongue flickering from its mouth like a black licorice flame.

A stream of words spilled from Harry's mouth like a sauce pan boiling over.

"Oh my god, I'm crazy. I'm completely and utterly mad. There's no such thing as muggles and Dr. Fletcher can't teleport. I just imagined it all, because I'm a lunatic. I'm hallucinating a talking snake that appears completely seamless from reality, because this_ isn't _reality. I'm not even here right now. I've never been here. I was in that car crash when I was a baby and went completely comatose and all of this is happening inside of my brain since I'm in a _vegetative state—"_

"Are you all right, my boy?"

_"No! _I'm not all right! What do you care, anyway?! You're just a faction of my psyche talking to itself!"

The snake was wise, and it did not take long for her to deduce that plans had gone awry, or were running slightly behind schedule. So, she stalled.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

_"It is, isn't it?!" _Harry shrieked. "Completely mad!"

"Stop causing such a fuss, or the zoo keeper will hear you," the snake retorted dismissively.

Harry put his shirt over his mouth and breathed through it, to stop himself from hyperventilating.

"Now, let's do away with all the formalities and talk businesssss..." the snake hissed.

Harry nodded from behind his shirt, shoulders heaving.

"What's your name, little one?"

Harry lowered his shirt in bewilderment, "Harry Potter."

"Nagini."

The name reminded Harry of some kind of exotic vegetable. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. He wasn't sure how to feel about anything, at this particular moment. There was only one question he could think to ask.

"Do you like having heat vision?" he blurted.

Nagina's tongue flickered, "What a pointless question."

"Why?"

"Do you like having human vision?"

"Right," Harry replied. He hadn't thought about it that way.

"When speaking, let your words pass a few simple testssss," Nagina suggested. "Words must help you, and harm your enemies. Question, command, cut, and control."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Give your questions _worth,"_ Nagina replied. "A question is meant to yield an answer. A command yields an action. And a cut draws blood. Anything else... use to bend those around to your will."

Harry was skeptical of this philosophy of conversation. It didn't seem like it would make you very many friends.

_Then again, I have no friends, so what do I know?_

"All right," he said, playing along for the time being. "What do you know about muggles?"

Nagina's head bobbed closer to the glass, and her supine form uncoiled further, creating a sloped 'S' shape that slowly swayed back and forth as she talked.

_"Mugglesssss,"_ she spat. "Loathsome creatures. The lowliest of all."

"But what are they?" Harry prodded.

"The scum of the Earth," Nagina recoiled. "They threaten to destroy everything pure."

"But biologically."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

Harry sighed, "What _classifies _a muggle? How would I tell one, from say, myself?"

"You cannot know," the snake replied. "They look the same. But they are everywhere. Inhabiting nearly every corner of the planet. _Billions_ of them."

Harry's eyes widened, "Billions? But— where did they come from?"

"No one knows," Nagini mused. "But they have spread like wildfire. It's all in the blood."

_Of course..._

"A _sickness!"_ Harry exclaimed. _"_How did I not think of this before?!" His expression suddenly grew serious, "I... I think my uncle was infected."

"How do you mean?" Nagini asked confusedly.

"I... I'm not sure," Harry stammered, mind racing. "At least, I'm pretty sure he was, and now he's trying to infect me. Is it just transmitted through bodily fluids, or is it an airborne pathogen?"

_"MUM AND DAD! MUM AND DAD, COME HERE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT THIS SNAKE IS DOING!"_

Harry was knocked to the ground as Dudley slammed into him from behind. Harry hit the ground hard, feeling his head slam into the concrete floor. The world blackened, and a dizzying expanse of stars filled his vision.

_No! No, no, no, no!_

This couldn't happen! Not when he was so close to solving everything! Anger swelled up in Harry. Uncontainable rage, burning in every fiber of his wiry eleven year old being.

Perhaps it was the onset of anger that allowed a mysterious entity within Harry's brain to rear its ugly head, overtaking him once more.

Quite suddenly, the pane of glass separating Nagini from Dudley vanished, and the boy toppled headfirst into the exhibit. Things escalated nightmarishly from there. Nagina moved swiftly, ejecting herself from the enclosure and slithering around the corner, with Harry close behind.

The Dursley parents were both plastered against the wall in fright. As soon as the snake was gone, a frantic Petunia rushed to the exhibit, only to find that the glass had _re-appeared,_ trapping Dudley within. She hammered on the pane and screamed herself hoarse. Dudley had never seen something so terrifying in his life. A mother's face was not supposed to look this way.

Before too long, a zoo keeper arrived on the scene with keys to get the fat boy out of the snake tank. Dudley was in post-traumatic shock, so getting him out of the exhibit was an ordeal in itself. After much pleading, Dudley exerted a minimal amount of energy into crawling out of the tank.

The three Dursleys were invited back to the zoo keeper's office, for what they hoped was reimbursement for this terrible ordeal. They were sadly mistaken. Sitting in a chair in the zoo keeper's office was a pouty-faced Piers Polkiss.

"Is this your boy? the zoo keeper asked sternly.

"Not ours, no," Vernon said. "But we are looking after Piers. Why is he in here? What is the meaning of this?"

"This little trickster lifted these off me," the man replied, jangling his key ring.

Petunia and Vernon were silent, staring at Piers with a dumbfounded expression.

"Now, maybe he just wanted to go in to pet some of the animals, but we do not take too kindly to_ theft,_ Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. Many of the animals in this zoo can pose a serious threat, and we wouldn't want him or anyone else to get hurt. I found him trying to unlock the door to the lion cage."

"Pardon me," Vernon remarked. "But don't you have... well, _larger issues_ to deal with than boys being boys? A dangerous snake just escaped."

The zoo keeper narrowed his eyes, _"Boys being boys?_ Mr. Dursley, I don't think you grasp the severity of the situation."

"Then please, enlighten me," Vernon retorted, swelling up to his full size and releasing a wart-hoggian snort from beneath his bushy mustache.

"Your boy Dudley was just found in the snake exhibit."

Petunia's eyes flared, _"What are you insinuating here?"_

The zoo keeper looked incredulous, "I'm not insinuating, Mrs. Dursley. I think it's quite clear what happened." He held up the keys. "Piers unlocked the door to the snake exhibit for Dudley, and then went off to look at the lions, where I found him. The door automatically re-locks, of course, so Dudley was trapped inside."

"That is most certainly _not _what happened!" Petunia shrieked. "I witnessed the glass—"

Vernon elbowed Petunia, and she stopped abruptly.

_Of course I can't say that... _She thought to herself. _I'll look as if I've gone mad._

"Mrs. Dursley?" the zoo keeper pressed.

Vernon and Petunia sputtered, trying to think of a reasonable explanation that did make them look like lunatics, and could absolve Dudley and Piers of blame. After a painfully long silence, their shoulders slumped in defeat.

The zoo keeper walked to a large metal filing cabinet and yanked it open with a bang. From it's metal belly he removed a dog eared folder, and placed it on the desk.

"Our file on Dudley Dursley," he spoke grimly. "Numerous reports from zoo keepers over the years. Your son has a documented fascination with feces. Whether or not he was trying to nab himself a smidgeon in the snake tank... well, that's a question to ask him yourself, perhaps behind closed doors."

Petunia let out a high pitched squeak.

"Right then," the zoo keeper said. "I hope they are able to find that specimen, for your sake. That snake was a _very_ rare find. Cost us a fortune."

Vernon's face drained of color.

"We'll be in touch, Mr. Dursley."

* * *

When Harry awoke, he found himself nestled in a downy nest of blankets. He felt warm and safe here, and nuzzled his face against the fuzzy folds of the linens, breathing in the fresh smell of...

Baby powder?

Harry sat up drowsily, looking around. He was in a cage.

Bars of white formed the walls of his cell. He extended his hands and grabbed the slats of polished wood, only to find that his fingers were laughably small. Harry examined his hands. They looked like two tiny pink starfish. He grabbed the crib, testing the strength of his grip. So weak. And uncoordinated.

_I'm a helpless infant._

Frantic, Harry tried to stand, but just rolled over. As he began to panic over the absurdity of the situation, he felt a dampness spreading around his groin.

Harry couldn't help but let a sob escape his lips. He had never been much of a crier, but for some reason he just couldn't stop himself. As Harry began to bawl, he wondered if this is really what it was like to be a baby. People always seemed to idealize the simple lives of infants.

_But most of a baby's time is spent sitting in their own feces, hungry, and unreasonably sad._

Just as it all began to seem ridiculously hopeless, there was a creak as the door to the bed room opened. This is when Harry set eyes on the most beautiful woman had ever seen. He stopped crying instantly, and wiped his eyes to get a better look at the angelic creature.

_Was Aunt Petunia beautiful once?_

But it couldn't be Petunia. This woman had red hair, not black. Her features were softer. Her eyes... kinder? She looked like she had spent a lot of time in her life smiling, whereas Petunia's face was set in a permanently repulsed expression, as if she had just gotten a whiff of something foul.

The woman approached the crib and picked Harry up. She bobbed him up and down in her arms.

Harry wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure if he could talk in his current form. He was afraid it would come out as gobbledegook. The baby opened and closed his mouth stupidly, and a tiny bit of drool dribbled on his chin. The woman laughed— a glorious sound, like a wind chime— and wiped the spittle.

"Little Harry," the woman whispered. "My little Harry."

Harry's heart swelled with pride. He furrowed his brow in confusion. Just as it dawned on him that this couldn't _possibly_ be real, the picturesque scene began to melt away before his very eyes.

_No! _Harry reached out a hand, trying to hold onto the dream for as long as he could. But as is so often the case with dreams, as soon as you realize you are in one— it will dissipate. Harry awoke back in reality. Cold, cruel reality. Where the closest thing he had felt to a mother's embrace was Dudley laying on top of him, trying to get squeeze Harry's insides out through his ears.

Harry blinked several times as his eyes became acclimated to the dark. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and sat up, shivering. He appeared to be in a plain of tall grass. The blades looked pale blue under the light of the harvest moon. But there was a second source of illumination. A faint orange glow, coming from just beyond the ridge.

_The last rays of the setting sun?_

The glow seemed to flicker, waxing and waning in a way Harry had never seen before. He took a tentative step forward and inhaled. A smoky scent lingered in the evening air. This is when Harry realized the glow wasn't the sun at all... but something else far more sinister.

The boy climbed to the top of the ridge, the wind whipping his black hair as he gazed down into the valley where Little Whinging lay. He knew what was burning long before his eyes set sight on the spectacle. He had known the second he inhaled the smoke.

#4 Privet Drive, engulfed in flames. The inferno extended high into the sky, its flickering tendrils swaying like some kind of enormous creature of the sea— belching putrid clouds of thick black smoke into the night.

As Harry watched his home burn, he felt something leaving. Something that could not be put into words, but he intuitively understood.

He suddenly knew that he was no longer safe.

"Harry," a voice spoke from behind.

Startled, Harry was pulled from his trance-like state. He swung around, only to find himself face to face with Nagini the snake.

"Come with me, Harry," the snaked hissed.

"Why?" Harry asked, heart pounding.

"I need your help."

"With what?"

The snake extended upwards, until her face was level with Harry's, gazing at him with a set of piercing yellow eyes.

"Killing Muglessss."


	6. Chapter 6: The Lady In Pink

Stipulation(s): As long as JK Rowling holds Harry in her clutches, I will remain a slave to her every whim. She taunted me with his freedom, and then made me brew her tea and do her taxes.

* * *

Chapter 6

The Lady in Pink

* * *

A single match was struck in the dark, held in the shaking hand of a woman who had lost everything. The hand held the match delicately. She did not play with fire carelessly. Not anymore. The timid flame ignited a rusty oil lamp, which hung on a hook by her bedside.

Pale blue-veined feet found solace in a pair of slippers, arranged the precise distance away from the side of the bed for appliance during midnight jaunts such as these. The slippers were a result of the woman's meticulousness— a trait that had not been abandoned, but merely focused into small acts of compulsion. These things... these small things, was all she had left. Slippers at precise distances. They were comforting familiarities. Reminders of the world she had left behind, so she would not forget.

Petunia Dursley took the oil lamp in her trembling hand. A ray of light from the lamp fell on the face of her sleeping boy, Dudley, at the foot of the bed. The boy she loved as her own, but also loathed.

Looking positively ghostly in her tattered nightgown, a frail Petunia emerged in the second room of the hut (there were only two). The second room featured a fireplace and a moth-eaten sofa, as well as their provisions. Petunia set the lamp on the floor, next to a cardboard box, marked 'Food.'

As she rummaged through the box, looking for something to satisfy her midnight cravings, her psyche cried out in disgust. The floor on which she knelt was filthy, covered in layers of grime. It reeked of fish and mildew. She had tried to scrub it clean when they had first arrived at this wretched place, but the floor leaked, and a putrid brine of the sea coated it afresh as the tides rose. She could not clean it fast enough. The feculence of the ocean seeped up from below, carrying with it that rank salty scent, which clung to the soggy slats of wood, soaking into every fiber. For a full day she had toiled— scouring for hours on end, leaving streaks of blood from her blistered hands on the floorboards. But when she finished, it looked no better than when she began. And the the smell still lingered.

Petunia took a bite of a withering turnip, and began to weep. But her salty tears just reminded her of the ocean. Petunia had contemplated throwing herself into the tumultuous waves. It could even look like an accident... but she didn't have the courage. As miserable as her existence was, she still couldn't bring herself to end it all.

_You spineless worm._

The tiny shack shuddered violently. The waves crashed against its feeble frame, and the wind howled like a wounded hound. Petunia pulled the thin folds of her night gown tighter against herself, feeling exposed to the elements. Her teeth chattered, making it difficult to scrape away the bitter flesh of the turnip with her horsey incisors.

A curt rap on the door startled the crouched Petunia. She fell backwards, dropping the root back in the box with surprise.

A moment of silence followed. During this moment, Petunia's neuroses shifted into high-gear. The tic in her left eye went haywire. She began to sweat profusely, despite the chilly temperature in the hut.

_Knock knock knock._

Three more, short and sharp. Petunia rose to her feet, her breathing erratic.

_Wake up Vernon._

But just as she began to turn on her heel, the door flew off its hinges and landed with a deafening crash. Petunia screamed a scream so shrill it would have left her high school choir professor speechless (It was a perfect C6).

Despite the thunderous fall of the door, and several seconds of ear-splitting shrieking— neither Dudley nor Vernon so much as stirred. Petunia was practically welded to the wall, hands clamped on either side of her face, not unlike the 1893 painting by Edward Munch.

However, all expectations Petunia had as to what might be standing in that doorway were defied. As she peeled each finger individually from her cadaverous face, she only grew more entranced as a lady in pink stepped through the threshold— for this lady was everything Petunia was not, but desperately wanted to be.

She was dignified, pristine, perfection.

The woman entered the abode with flawless posture, back straight and hands raised daintily. One held a pink clutch bag, and the other a polished wand. Her fingers were plump, and sported a dazzling array of jewelry that made Petunia ache with envy. Her hair was an immaculate pile of plasticine curls. Atop the shiny assemblage of gray ringlets was one adorably tiny black bow.

Her attire possessed a child-like quality. A pink cardigan, with a darling patterned pea-coat in shades of magenta.

_Nothing like the tawdry outfits other women nowadays wear._ Petunia thought to herself. _Her style is fashion forward, and yet, quaint... _

Petunia often tried to coordinate her outfits, but didn't have much of an eye for color, so her attempts at a savvy wardrobe usually fell flat. She felt that perhaps this woman could teach her...

_Don't be absurd! She's a witch!_

Petunia hadn't met any witches besides her sister, and had been under the impression they were all weirdos and freaks. But this woman seemed as prim as prim could be. Well-groomed, straight-laced, and _conventional._

"Madame Dolores Umbridge, senior undersecretary to the Minister of Magic," the lady introduced herself in a syrupy simper.

"P-P-Petunia," Petunia stammered, and extended a hand.

Dolores' eyes traveled up and down Petunia's body in silent judgement. Her face widened into a thin-lipped smile.

"Hem, hem," a high-pitched phony cough came from her lips. She averted her eyes politely.

Petunia's face grew hot with embarrassment. She realized she was _still _in her ragged night gown, and her hand was _still_ covered in flecks of turnip.

_STUPID, STUPID PETUNIA._

Ashamed by her unsightly appearance, Petunia sucked in a breath of air with a squeak, and rushed to the bedroom. As she rummaged through her trunk of neatly folded clothes, looking for even mildly formal attire, she debated rousing her family.

_No, no, they will only embarrass me further. Best handle this one alone._

Most of Petunia's clothing had burned up in the house fire. She had purchased a few things, but nothing impressive. She finally settled on a blouse and some lightly-stained slacks that smelt strongly of crab.

Petunia dug in the trunk for her pocket mirror and powder puff. After gingerly applying make-up to the splotchier areas of her face, she popped open the rickety window and stuck both her hands into the maelstrom, letting the rain pelt them clean.

When Petunia returned, she found Dolores Umbridge perched precariously on the edge of the threadbare sofa with her legs crossed and hands folded. She was making as little contact with the furniture as possible. Petunia rushed to the fireplace and fumbled around with the matches, hands trembling.

"Hem, hem," Dolores made the noise again, and motioned for Petunia to step aside with a pitying expression. She extended her wand and shot a burst of sparks into the fireplace, igniting the logs. She then smiled widely, and patted the spot on the sofa next to her.

Petunia sat.

Dolores reached into her clutch bag, and pulled out a pair of tea cups, adorned with the image of playful kittens. With another flick of her wand, the cups were full to the brim. She handed Petunia one of the cups, who accepted the steaming vessel graciously.

_So demure._

"Thank you," Petunia said, and she meant it. She hadn't had a proper cup of tea in three days.

"You are most welcome," Dolores replied sweetly. "Petunia, you said?"

"Yes, madam," Petunia confirmed.

"I was sorry to hear about your home. What a tragedy," Dolores sighed, looking mournful. Her mouth puckered. "I imagine you are terribly distraught."

Petunia straightened her back, and tried to look strong, "Yes, well..." she sighed. "It was a horrible accident. But... one lives on. People get by with less."

Dolores looked around the hut with a sympathetic expression, and laid a hand softly on Petunia's knee.

It was sad, but Petunia had not been touched so tenderly in a long time. It wasn't Vernon's fault— he was a naturally heavy-handed man, and lacked the emotional subtlety to be deeply consolatory. Petunia found herself reminiscing about the only other time she had felt loved. There had been one night, back when she was in college. It had started the same way. With a light touch on the knee... She had consumed a smidgeon of gin that night...

What Petunia didn't know is that it took all of Dolores' will power to touch a muggle without vomiting. Umbridge's stomach did flip flops, but she locked her jaw in a permanently empathetic countenance.

"Accident?" Dolores pressed in sickeningly sweet tones, since the other woman had drifted off into her own thoughts.

Petunia's heart palpitated in agony, and she took a sip of tea. Her attention was redirected towards the night of the house fire.

She could still taste the burning fumes in her throat from that night. She could see the malformed pile of burning plastic that had been Dudley's pile of gifts. She remembered the way her beautiful carpet had shriveled as the fire devoured it. She experienced the ache all over again... the ache of inhaling breath after breath, but getting no air. She could still feel the heat on her face from when Piers Polkiss had spontaneously combusted. The charred remains dripping off the walls. A string of intestine on the banister...

Petunia broke down. A single tear rolled down her cheek as her mouth gaped, and she stared into the fireplace.

Dudley's screams...

_Would the boy ever be the same, after what he saw?_

And Vernon... driven to the brink of insanity. So scared for his family that he had moved them here. "We're going away!" he had roared. "_Far away! Where he can't find us!"_ 'He,' of course, meaning Harry. For who else could have committed such an abominable crime?

"I don't know where he is, if that's what you're asking," Petunia replied faintly. "He isn't here. I haven't seen the boy since the zoo."

Umbridge withdrew her hand from Petunia's knee, and placed it back in her lap. Petunia felt her breath catch in her throat. This woman. This toad-faced woman. She had the most tantalizing scent. Like honey, but mixed with something slightly bitter. Petunia wondered what kind of perfume she wore. She also wondered what kind of soap Dolores used to do her dishes.

_Do witches even need soap for doing the dishes?_

Petunia wasn't sure. But she desperately wanted to know. She wanted to sit on a veranda and ask Dolores such questions, perhaps in matching bathing suits, as they sipped non-alcoholic pool-side beverages. Petunia didn't want to disappoint this woman. She barely knew her, and yet... she longed for her approval. She contributed the only pertinent scrap of information she knew:

"He left the zoo with a snake," Petunia continued.

Dolores' eyes gleamed.

"I know it sounds mad!" Petunia hissed. "But—"

She fell silent as Dolores raised a bejeweled finger.

"It doesn't sound mad," Umbridge said. "In fact, that is exactly why I am here." Her smile grew wide once more, and she let out a tiny giggle, "For _you."_

There was quiet between the two women.

"F-for me?"

"You."

Dolores rose from the couch and brushing herself off, "I would very much like for you to come with me."

Petunia's heart banged in her chest. _Surely, she can't mean..._

"What for?" Petunia asked nervously. She swatted at her eye, for the nervous tic had come back. A tiny droplet of tea spilled on the couch.

Dolores' eyes shined, "For your testimony, of course."

"Testimony?"

Petunia's heart sank. She wondered what she was being accused of, and suddenly became very self-conscious again about her hair, and its uncanny resemblance to a possum. She patted her her twitching head.

Umbridge walked to the mantle, and stood in front of the fire, crossing her hands on her waist.

"Your nephew has been a... very _naughty _boy," she said softly, gazing into the flame. "And nothing would make me happier than to see him put somewhere that he can't hurt anyone else."

Petunia was astounded. For years she had assumed there was no alternative to enduring Harry's wrath. Dumbledore had been very clear when the boy had been brought there eleven years prior that Harry was to _not _leave the Dursley's care.

"Petunia?" Dolores prodded sweetly. "I hope I haven't upset you. But I do truly believe, in my heart of hearts, that your words would go a _long way_ in punishing Mr. Potter for his delinquent behaviors—"

"I'll do it," Petunia interrupted. _"Of course I'll do it!" _She leapt to her feet. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll _do it._ Anything. You can throw him in prison and let him rot for all I care. That little piece of shit_ deserves it!"_

Petunia breathed heavily, her eyes alight. She took a step back, smoothing out her blouse, and patting her hair down. Oh yes, that had felt good. She had never cursed Harry before.

"That insolent little _twat," _she hissed. "That spiteful, nasty _son of a bitch."_

She rung her hands together, and paced back and forth, letting out a mirthful laugh "H_e really is,"_ she shrieked. "My sister Lily was a filthy lying bitch. That whore. She was always a _dirty whore."_

Petunia handed Dolores back her cup of tea, who looked astonished at the sudden outburst. For a moment the only sound was the crackle of the fire.

Now, Petunia hadn't had a friend in a long time. She found most people to be impure, impolite, and possess less than adequate hygiene standards. It was for these reasons she couldn't stand most of the other housewives in Little Whinging. Though she would never say it to their faces, Petunia thought they wore garish and smutty attire _and_ left their houses in _complete _disarray. She often spied through their windows with binoculars to see how clean their kitchens were, and glimpsed dishes left undone for as long as _twenty minutes. _But the solitude took its toll. Petunia had grown lonely. She wanted someone to call on the phone and prattle on about how terribly the Normans pruned their rose bushes. She wanted to go out and get her hair done at the salon and read celebrity magazines. She wanted someone to cut out coupons with, and then go bargain shopping for household appliances.

Perhaps it was the way the light of the flame made Dolores' hair shimmer, or the promise of vengeance. But whatever the reason, Petunia felt like Dolores might be this person.

* * *

There was a glint in the girl's eye as her fingernail circumnavigated the edge of the coin, feeling the dotted border. Her thumb brushed over the royal arms insignia, brushing away a few motes of dust that settled on the scintillating surface of the golden token. There was a certain satisfaction to be had from basking in the fruits of one's labour. The girl wallowed in a sense of accomplishment and awe at her own proficiency.

_And to think this money would have been squandered on some trifle— a lolly, or an ice cream._

Hermione hadn't indulged in either of the aforementioned frivolities in her entire life. Most obviously, because they would both make short work of one's teeth. But perhaps more importantly— such behavior would be puerile and wasteful. Hermione did not like waste. Wasted money, wasted time, wasted potential. Most individuals expended all three as if they had heaps to spare. Hermione knew better. She knew that her life was a mere drop in the cosmic ocean of time.

A thought such as this would be humbling and harrowing for many, but not Hermione Jane Granger. Instead, she found it to be a tremendous challenge. Given that at the moment, her existence was completely unimportant, she aspired to become the most important thing in existence.

She had not shared this endeavor with anyone in her life thus far, for fear of being reprimanded. She knew her parents wouldn't understand.

_It's nice to be important, but more important to be nice._

The contrary words of her mother rang in her ears. Hermione detested this adage. Progression of the species wasn't dependent on the _kind. _It depended on the _cutthroat. _During her history lessons, Hermione's parents would often condemn the imperialist actions of Great Britain. In her eyes, a fundamental hypocrisy existed in preaching about the injustice done in the name of greed, while simultaneously enjoying the many comforts of life that such atrocities had made possible. Of course, she had never voiced her concerns. Then her parents would have been alerted about the true nature of her plans.

Hermione placed many of her mental faculties in consequentialism— a school of thought most simply encapsulated in the phrase 'the ends justify the means.'

Deep down, Hermione truly believed herself to be selfless person. She wanted what was best for her race. Unfortunately, it often seemed as if the other members did not know what was best for them. They routinely engaged in behavior that helped neither themselves _nor _the whole. So, she often had to take matters in her own hands by doing small acts of injustice, for the greater good.

By simply manipulating patients in the waiting room of her parent's dentist office, for example, the girl had amassed a small fortune. She never took enough to harm. Never something that would be truly missed. She considered it to be a tax of sorts. Their money was better spent in her hands anyway. Hermione kept all of her stolen funds in a shoe box under her bed at home. She had plans to invest it in the stock market in due time, but this required laundering the money through her parent's business first, which was going to be slightly trickier.

She held up the coin to the window, blocking out sphere of light that was the sun.

_A fiscal eclipse._

Hermione readily admitted that a capitalistic system was not the ideal. But it was the unfortunate reality that the girl found herself in— and only by playing by their rules could she eventually destroy it.

She turned the coin in her fingers, examining it from all sides. How easily people parted with their hard-won dollars, when offered something they wanted. The young boy, Thomas, had been all too eager to trade his allowance in exchange for experiencing less pain. But the pain would have been only momentary. Foolish boy.

Just then, a blurry shape came to Hermione's attention, lurking on the other side of the glass. She re-focused her eyes past the coin, and blinked in surprise as she saw the shape of a plump woman dressed in a bubble-gum shaded waist coat bustle down the sidewalk.

There was a tinkle as the bell above the door was jostled, and the woman stepped inside the dentist's office. Hermione quickly pocketed the coin.

"No need to hide it, Ms. Granger," said a sweet voice, with a hint of malice.

Hermione decided to play dumb. Her mild-mannered appearance had saved her many times in the past. If this pudgy lady in pink was merely a disgruntled parent, she could probably fool her.

"Hide what, Miss?" Hermione asked, her eyes wide.

Umbridge took a step forward, and let out a small high-pitched noise that sounded like a cross between a burp and a hiccup. She laid a hand on her bosom, "I'm afraid you have to come with me, dear."

"My daddy told me not to talk to strangers," Hermione recited innocently. "Maybe I should get him."

Hermione opened her mouth to yell out for her father, but Umbridge flicked her wand.

_"Silencio."_

In the most horrifying moment of Hermione's life, she found herself screaming out for help, but making no sound. If there was one thing that terrified her— it was being helpless.

Dolores quickly stunned the girl with another carefree flourish. Hermione was languid in her chair now, mouth still hanging open slightly. Her limp form flopped onto the floor, unwinding from the burrito of blankets.

Umbridge approached the girl, tutting under her breath. Hermione had been so self-assured a minute ago— enraptured in her delusions of grandeur, and blissfully unaware of the fate to befall her. Had she really thought such despicable behavior would go by unnoticed? Foolish girl.

Umbridge licked her lips, and knelt by Hermione.

_Such a malignant little child... and a muggle-born, no less. Bad behavior must be punished. Wrongs must be righted, and naughtiness nullified._

Umbridge grabbed a paralyzed Hermione by the arm, and the two of them vanished with a crack.

* * *

It was many hours later that Hermione Granger regained consciousness in the company of a certain Harry Potter.

Now, the two children had never laid eyes on each other before, and had no idea that over the course of the coming year they would play a pivotal role in each other's lives— or that they would become mortal enemies in the process. They had no knowledge of the sacrifices that would be made, the blood that would be shed, the tears that would be cried, and the wars that would be fought on their behalf. They did not anticipate that their first meeting was a monumental event in history. At the time, they were just two eleven year old misfits who had been thrown in the same holding cell.

Hermione opened her eyes drearily. The first thing she saw was blocks of drab grey stone that composed the stone wall beside her. She reached out her hand and laid it on the rock. It was wet to the touch. Slimy, even. She grimaced and looked around the cell. There was a barred door made of rusty metal, and a pair of torches on the wall. And sitting across from her, on the other side of the cell, was a boy.

He was a wiry creature, with angular features and a nest of tangled black hair that reminded her of some kind of wild animal, though she wasn't sure what. The boy was ogling Hermione with a lamp-like pair of green eyes, amplified in size by the bent pair of round spectacles resting on his nose.

Hermione wondered what this delinquent had done to get locked up. Probably drugs. He looked gaunt and emaciated like an amphetamine addict. Hermione had seen them wandering the alleys back in her hometown. Now that she thought about it, Hermione wasn't even sure she _was _in prison. As far as she knew, juvenile centers looked nothing like this. The only word that could properly describe the enclosure she was in was 'dungeon.'

_Perhaps I've been abducted by a human trafficking ring, and am going to be sold into sex slavery._ _Someone is getting sued for this._

In the mean time, the most prudent course of action would be finding some way to assault her captors and make an escape. Hermione did a quick scan of the cell. There was nothing here except grime and misery. Well... and the boy.

Hermione turned her eyes to Harry, and considered killing him, stripping the flesh off his arm, and whittling the bone into a crude spear (if time permitted, of course). A bludgeoning weapon _could _work, but Hermione doubted her capacity to swing it with enough force to inflict real damage. All in due time. First, she needed to gather information.

"What's your name?" Hermione asked.

"Marvin," Harry replied quickly.

"Liar."

Hermione could tell because his eyes had shifted very slightly before he spoke. This wasn't definitive evidence, but his reaction to her accusation would act as a confirmation. Predictably, Harry blushed. Hermione gave a rueful smile.

"What's your real name, then?"

"What's it to you?" Harry shot back.

"Just making polite conversation."

"Liar."

_He's sharp, this one. All the better. I haven't cracked a hard nut in awhile._

"What makes you say that?" Hermione asked, making sure to keep her expression taciturn. She would not fall victim to the same misstep Harry had seconds earlier. So far she was leading 1-0 in this verbal joust, and wasn't going to forfeit her lead easily.

"I was watching when you woke up," Harry explained. "You looked around, as if you were trying to find something to escape with. Then you looked at me, and seemed... well, like you had found something. So, I can only imagine it's because you plan to murder me and then fashion my body parts into some sort of makeshift weapon. But first you would want to find out more about this place, and maybe establish a friendship between use, so I would be unsuspecting when you bashed my skull on the wall or something awful to that effect."

Hermione could not help her eyebrows from rising in surprise. Harry noticed this, and his suspicions were confirmed.

_1-1_

Hermione quickly transformed the rising of her eyebrows into a feigned aghast, but this did not fool her crafty companion.

"I... I would never think of doing such a thing," Hermione whimpered. "Are you going to do that to _me?!"_

Harry rolled his eyes, "Oh, hush up."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm a bit knackered anyhow, and it would be a really nice change if someone trying to kill me just came out and _said it_ every once and awhile."

The two children stared at each other.

Of course, Hermione would not admit it. To do so would show weakness, and she was not about to, especially not to_ this_ puny boy. However, she also knew it would look immensely foolish if she attempted to perpetuate further lies. Taken slightly off guard, and somewhat riled, Hermione could do nothing but roll her eyes and release a condescending sigh.

"Whatever," she retorted prissily.

_2-1 (Harry's favor)_

"I am open to collaborating," Harry clarified. "If the muggles locked you in here, you must have done _something _right. So, I wouldn't be opposed to exchanging information. You know, assuming we have the mutual interest of escape."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, "Bugger off."

"Don't you want to escape?"

_"Yes."_

"Then why not?"

_"Because,"_ Hermione said huffily. "I don't trust you enough to tell you anything. For all I know, you could be one of them, put here to try and get me to confess."

"But I could say the same about you," Harry countered. "And on matters of trustworthiness— we _both _lied to protect ourselves, so that suggests at least some level of distrust from _both _parties. Honestly, I think you're just bothered because I saw through your 'innocent child' ploy, which is the oldest trick in the book, might I add."

Hermione gritted her teeth, "I suppose you fancy yourself to be quite clever, don't you?"

Harry shrugged, "Not particularly."

"And now we're back to lies."

Harry furrowed his brow, _"_You're just naturally antagonistic towards strangers, I suspect. That's fine. I'm the same way. _Is there_ something to confess?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said 'to try to get me to confess' which _implies_ that there is something to be confessed."

"No, it does not imply that."

Now it was Harry's turn to raise his eyebrows, "Doesn't it? Out of all the examples you could offer, you chose to offer that one in your statement. I just find it curious."

"Why's that?" Hermione spat.

"Because if you had done something morally reprehensible, that would be a common denominator between us, and possibly offer further insight into the reasons we both have been detained here."

Now Hermione's interest had been piqued. Of course, she knew that he was dangling a fat juicy worm in front of her. It was an obvious lure— but that somehow complicated the situation even further. She saw no danger in asking 'Marvin' to elaborate. She could always choose to deny him information, so there was no real risk, right? The boy seemed to be putting the ball in her court, perhaps as a gesture meant to instill trust.

Hermione sighed, "And just what have you done that is so 'morally reprehensible'?"

Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose, "Killed an old woman with a throwing star. I feel terribly about the ordeal."

Hermione snorted, "Regret is wasteful."

"Maybe," Harry agreed. "But not always intentional."

"Who was she?"

Harry's wrung his hands together, "My neighbor. At the time, I thought she was an enemy."

"So they brought you in for murder?"

"Not exactly," Harry mused. "That was only the start of it. I tried to frame my uncle for the entire thing, but nothing came of it. Then my house burned down. I suspect arson."

This is when Hermione was reminded of a headline she had seen just earlier that day in the newspaper, "_11 YEAR OLD BOY LOST TO HOUSE FIRE IN LITTLE WHINGING"_

"Your house... where was it?" she asked tentatively.

"#4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging."

"Did anyone... perish?"

"I don't know," Harry confessed. "I watched the fire from a distance."

Hermione was conflicted. On one hand, the boy's story checked out, and could be verified by evidence that she herself had laid eyes on. And if his body was never found... could this boy be the fatality?

On the other hand, Hermione was still feeling the sting of embarrassment from losing so terribly, and had half a mind to tell him to get lost, and figure his own way out of this cell, because she wasn't in the habit of helping _murderers. _Of course, this is slightly misleading. It wasn't so much that Hermione _actually_ found Harry's actions deplorable, but more so that hers just paled in comparison. That's what really got under her skin.

"So, what landed you in here?" Harry pressed.

Hermione smirked, "Nothing so infantile as murder. I stole."

"Stole?"

"Not quite 'stole', I suppose. If they give you money by choice, it isn't really stealing. You could say I'm a con woman."

Harry looked unsettled.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"I just find that to be rather unprincipled, is all."

"Unprincipled?" Hermione repeated, incredulously. _"You killed an old woman."_

Harry winced, "Well, yes, but that was... circumstantial."

Hermione scoffed, "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it."

Harry looked troubled, "I did enjoy it," he admitted.

There was silence, apart from the drip drop of water echoing from somewhere in the cavernous chamber. Hermione squinted her eyes, "Are you a schizo?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably, "No. Probably not. Well, maybe."

_2-2_

Harry scratched his head, and then put his hands back in his lap, and continued to wring them together. Hermione watched him in amusement. After not too much prodding, she had detected a soft spot in the apple. This would prove useful. But now she needed to back off slightly. That jab had been slightly too vicious in retrospect. Time to play nice.

"I was sitting in my parent's dentist office when it happened. A lady in pink kidnapped me, and I woke up here. I don't know anything else."

Harry still looked troubled.

"Look, my actions may seem unprincipled," Hermione explained. "But they are all guided by a more salient principle, and as such, while they may _appear_ morally ambiguous to the untrained eye, they actually fulfill a greater purpose that transcends individual justice. In _simpler_ terms, I am working for the common good, but to maximize the chances of success, small acts of wickedness are required."

Harry frowned, "That seems... presumptuous."

"How so?"

"Well, _your_ common good and someone else's can vary, so I just find it presumptuous that you give your own view any more credence than theirs."

Hermione had purposefully left this hole wide open for Harry to exploit, and he had walked straight into the trap just as she had predicted he would. Touting moral relativism was a rookie mistake— and she pounced on him like a jungle cat.

"But that itself is a presumption, is it not?" she implored. "To say that there are no right or wrong answers that cannot be reached through reason? While we all differ greatly from one another, there _are_ things we all share."

"Such as?"

"A shared vulnerability to suffering. The capacity to make decisions for ourselves. An intrinsic curiosity that makes us ask 'why'. Is evil not the oppression or exploitation of these shared traits, for personal gain?"

Harry pondered this for a moment. His entire life had been comprised of inordinate amounts of suffering. All of his decisions were made for him by others. The Dursley's 'Don't Ask Questions' rule had stopped him from ever asking why. All intuition would tell him that the girl was correct in her definition. "I suppose you could define evil in such a way," Harry conceded.

"Then, is the common good not to reduce suffering, allow people to make their own decisions, and let them ask 'why,' without being persecuted for their ideas?

"Again, you could phrase it as such."

"But there are caveats," Hermione prattled on. "We _can_ make our own decisions, but if they infringe on the right of another, our actions actually _reduce _the overall decision-making capacity of humankind. Though we possess freedom to hold our own ideas, what if the ideas support persecution? Furthermore, is a decision truly a free one if it rests on the foundations of faulty knowledge or misinformation?

"I suppose not."

"And so," Hermione continued matter-of-factly. "We see that certain decisions and ideas are unacceptable if they render void the potentiality of good ideas and decisions. Our world is imbalanced in this way. I seek to restore _order."_

"Through conning people out of their money."

Hermione sighed, "But by _keeping _that money— instead of giving it to someone better such as myself— are they not _preventing _good?"

Harry's face twisted as he attempted to form a rebuttal to this girl's twisted logic. There was something not quite right here, but he just wasn't sure how to phrase it. All he could think of was to respond as she did him.

"But don't tell me you didn't enjoy it."

Hermione smiled widely, "To help the whole is to help oneself."

A chill ran down Harry's spine.

"You said the word 'muggles'," Hermione queried. "What does it mean?"

"Undetermined..." Harry murmured, and began to pick at a piece of hardened gum on the bottom of his sneaker.

"But you must have some idea."

Harry looked up at her with those wide eyes, and his mouth formed into a hard line, "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes agleam with curiosity, "Try me."

* * *

Four floors above the dungeon in which Harry Potter recanted his past, a heated argument was taking place regarding the boy's future. From behind a closed door, two muffled voices sparred.

On the door to the office a plaque was fastened, which read 'Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic'.

Sitting on a brass perch outside the office was a tawny great horned owl, preening itself regally.

"I demand you allow me to see him at _once," _Albus Dumbledore said in fierce tones. "The boy must be given some explanation about what has happened to him, or I fear he may become unstable."

"It's out of the question, I'm afraid," Umbridge replied sweetly. "The minister has informed me to give you this notice."

Umbridge handed a roll of parchment to Dumbledore across the desk. With a bob of his wand, the man unfurled the parchment. It hovered in mid-air in front of him, and he adjusted his spectacles as he scanned the document.

"The rest of the Wizengamot feels that your tampering of evidence in the case of Mr. Potter far exceeds the limitations of your position, and raises _serious_ concerns about your ability to weigh testimony with an unbiased eye," Umbridge explained. "Lucius and myself motioned for a temporary suspension of your chair, just until Mr. Potter's trial is over. I'm sure you understand."

Apart from the mewling of the many cats adorning the plates hung around Umbridge's office, there was silence between them. After several moments, Dumbledore rolled up the parchment and tucked it in his robe.

"Of course, Dolores," he said with phony cordiality. "But I fully intend to discuss this with Cornelius. I have already raised my concerns to the Minister regarding Mr. Potter, and I will raise them again. Voldemort continues to influence the boy. I beg you to consider this during the trial."

Dolores winced when Dumbledore said the name. She smoothed out the wrinkle in her her skirt and crossed her hands on the desk, looking at the man with a pitying expression.

"But Albus... He Who Must Not Be Named is gone."

At this, Dumbledore did not reply. There was nothing more he could do. He turned on his heel, the hem of his purple cloak rippling as he made a swift and emphatic exit from the disgustingly decorated dwelling of Dolores.


End file.
